


The Seventh of May

by Netterz



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Falling In Love, Falling for the Best Friend, First Monday in May, Happy Ending, Heist Wives, Heist-Timeline Too, Idiots in Love, Of Course They Fall in Love, Origin Story, Origins, Post-Heist, Pre-Heist, back story, they fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 07:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17935712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netterz/pseuds/Netterz
Summary: It's never been just a date or a time or a place.It's been the date and the time and place that turned her entire world inside out;changed all of her trajectories.It's always been more.[She's] always been [more].





	1. 1988

**Author's Note:**

> Well, uhm, I seem to have too many head cannons because here we are again.  
> I'm going to say this will have seven (7) chapters, but we all know how my projections for that usually turn out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Remember, you cannot have everything. Where would you keep it all?”
> 
> “The cookie has a point.”

**[May 7 th, 1988]**

People like her like the shadows.

The places where reality bends;  
where time stretches;  
where she weaves the only version of the truth that will matter.

She’s tired of being in another _person’s_ shadow, though.

She isn’t her brother. Never has been, never will be. She’ll never be the first born, or the golden boy, or their father’s next-of-kin. She’s better than that; she has to be—he left enough carnage in his wake that it’s a wonder she wasn’t assigned detention before ever setting foot in her high school, on speculation alone.

‘ _Stay away from that family.’  
__'Debbie Ocean’s trouble, just like her brother.’_

She’s heard all the whispers. She knows those whispers are why she’s been eating lunch and spending spare periods on her own, every day, for the last three and a half years. Honestly, it means she has more time to plan, to scheme, to learn how to be better than Danny ever was at this age and she likes that.

She knows her limits, and how to push, and doesn’t need to take reckless measures and end up getting caught just to prove she’s ballsy enough to do it.

Really, this is only the second time she’s been in detention at all, and the first time was when she skipped class to get Danny out of a jam anyways, so that one doesn’t really count against _her_. But this morning, when Madison goaded her into swiping her pager from the top drawer of MacDowell’s desk, taunted how she always sits alone, yelled across the room that she’s a coward, well, she might have made sure she got caught on purpose. She might have been trying to make sure Madison didn’t stand a chance at ever seeing that precious pager again, even if it did mean she was stuck in a stuffy classroom with her class hoodlums for a week’s worth of evenings.

She isn’t expecting it when Lou Miller drops down into the seat beside her, all skin-tight ripped jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt and scuffed-up Doc Martins. She’s expecting Lou Miller to be in detention—Lou’s always in detention, this time was for skipping second period—but she wasn’t expecting anybody to be in her space any time soon. Debbie doesn’t jump though, has better control of her body than that.

“So, what the hell was that, Ocean?”  
“Excuse you?”  
“Sloppy.”  
“What?”  
“ _Sloppy_. You were sloppy this morning when you were trying to get that beeper back for Madison.”

Debbie barely lifts her eyes from the swirls she’s penning into the margins of her notebook, arm strategically covering the loopy cursive she’s got across the lines themselves, though, if she’s being honest she’s not _entirely_ sure how long Lou was behind her before she sat down. Lou’s got a smirk on her pink lips, hollowing out her cheeks just a little, cheekbones standing out even more. Blue eyes peeking out from the midst of thick, black eyeliner, behind blunt fringe and Debbie isn’t really convinced she can see through it properly.

“Who says I’m not just bad at stealing shit?”  
“I do.”  
“You do?”  
“That’s right. I’ve seen you. Don’t worry—nobody else has.”

And the wink she gives Debbie is a little off-kilter, like she can’t quite get the muscles in her eyes to function independently of each other, but the look that follows is positively _sinful_.

Debbie caught her eye in January when their homeroom teacher forced Lou to come up to the front of the room and introduce herself to all of her new classmates. Lou hated it—hates being in front of crowds like that. Then, she found a pair of dark, scandalous eyes sizing her up from the back of the room and she’s been sizing Debbie up right back ever since. Knows how to spot an artist because she is one. Had to learn to be one when she was eleven and her mother up and left and her father drank his way through the grocery budget more often than he didn’t.

She likes watching Debbie; likes Debbie’s style. It’s smooth and elegant and understated, and if she notices that Debbie’s skin looks just as smooth and her gait is just as elegant, well, she doesn’t need to tell anybody about that.

“And why haven’t you ratted me out?”  
“Because I want a partner.”  
“A partner?”  
“Might be nice to have somebody watching your back, don’t you think?" 

Debbie smiles a little bit, flicks her gaze across the page her arm is still hiding, sideways again to look at Lou, and Lou watches as Debbie’s eyes _shimmer_ , full of mischief and trouble and maybe a promise or two for what could come, and Lou thinks she’d do just about anything to be the one to make her smile like that more often.

She waits Debbie out. Waits for her to keep speaking instead of offering up anything more, herself.

“I got caught on purpose.”  
“Yeah, I figured. Who would _want_ to do a favor for _Madison_?”  
“You came over here to call me sloppy even though you knew it was on purpose?”  
“I came over here because I want to be your partner.”

Debbie isn’t used to people wanting to know her, or be around her. But Lou’s looking at her like she’d move mountains to stay right where she is and something in her gut makes Debbie trust her. And Lou nods towards Debbie’s notebook and asks Debbie to trust her without asking; asks her to accept somebody else into her plans in not-so-many words. 

“What are we working on?”  
“I can’t figure out how to get past number five without getting caught.”  
“Transcripts?”  
“Transcripts.”  
“Architecture?”  
“Architecture.”  
“And if I can help you figure this out, psychology?”  
“If you can help me figure this out you can have whatever you want.”

Lou does. It isn’t Debbie’s usual style—a little dirtier, a little raunchier, but she kind of likes it and it gets them right where they want to be. It gets them right where they want to be, together, tied inextricably because they’ve both had a taste of what it’s like to have somebody else looking out for them and don’t want to go back. Splitting the spoils 50/50 is a small price when it means somebody to share it with. Somebody to share everything with.

Letters of acceptance—one each, earned or not—arrive and so do scholarship offers and Lou hasn’t ever seen a cheque made out to her with that many zeroes. Can barely fathom what that kind of money means for her life. Smiles at Debbie until her cheeks hurt and scoops her into a hug and spins her around with Debbie’s arms around her shoulders and they laugh until they’re out of breath.

Celebration is prom a month and a half later.

Except that it’s not. _Prom_ is nicking jewelry and borrowed credit cards and shiny knickknacks off their classmates. It’s _appalling_ , Lou’s word, how many of their peers are willing to settle for cheap knockoffs and fake gemstones. A select few will be worth fencing, though.

The real celebration is the parking lot behind the banquet hall after all the others leave for an after party that will undoubtedly be fueled by well-vodka. Lou has better options stashed under her bed, swiped from her leering uncle the last time he came to visit before she ran away from her father’s house, in Australia, in the middle of the night to fly across an ocean and find a one-room, run-down apartment that she can barely afford most months. Her landlord overlooks just how fake the ID that lets her legally rent the place looks, and the place is _hers_ —the first thing that’s ever been _hers_ her entire life.

“Dance with me.”

Debbie’s eyes are soft. She’s looking at Lou in the three-piece suit she managed to find second hand and tailored meticulously, by-hand, until it fit her like a glove. Looking at Lou like she’s about to have a revelation, standing under the orange streetlamps in a dark blue, satin, trumpet-cut dress that hugs every curve and she almost argues—there isn’t any music. Then, she doesn’t. This is not when she learns to tell Deborah Ocean _no_.

 

**[May 7 th, 1991]**

Lou juggles her cup of coffee and the bag of Chinese take-out, digs through her pocket for her new keys that are tangled in the folds of the wallet she lifted from the man yelling at the poor kid taking his order on her way out of the take-out place. Manages to get the door unlocked, then unlatched without dropping anything, kicks it open and then kicks it closed again behind her.

Debbie’s in the living room wearing a paint-splattered, oversized denim shirt that’s hanging off one shoulder, leggings, bare feet, surrounded by boxes. She’s surrounded by boxes and the love-seat they found at the Salvation Army, and the armchair they stole from the lounge of the dorm they lived in first-year, and the banged-up coffee table they found on the side of the road.

There’s a smear of warm-white across her cheek. Lou puts the spoils of her trek on the coffee table and laughs and shakes her head and tries to wipe the paint off Debbie’s face. Laughs a little more when she can’t because it’s already dried.

“Did you get any paint on the walls, Deb?”  
“What? You can’t tell the difference between the white-white from before and the warm-white now?”  
“Of course I can, honey.”

The one-bedroom is small. Honestly, a little smaller than their last one. The bedroom itself will hold a queen-mattress, only barely. They measured for two singles but they’d have been right up against each other anyways and one mattress, with one box spring, and one bed frame was less expensive. Besides, Debbie’s space became a little Lou’s, and Lou’s space became a little Debbie’s at some point and they’ve never looked back.

The apartment might be smaller, but it’s on a decent street. A street decent enough that Lou won’t constantly have her pocket knife clenched in her fist, in her pocket when they’re walking home after dark. Won’t have to be on guard every second until she gets Debbie in the door and locks it behind them.

Lou’s finally accepted that she’s falling for Debbie Ocean even if she swears up and down to herself, in the bathroom mirror every morning, that she’ll never admit it out loud.

They end up sitting on the floor, in the middle of all the boxes that they’ll unpack at some point, eating takeout from the throw-away containers. Lou’s focussed on digging a stubborn piece of tofu out of her stir fry with her chopsticks, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t even notice the fortune cookie Debbie throws at her until it bounces off the side of her head and cracks open when it hits the floor. Clucks her tongue at Debbie, scolding, for wasting a perfectly good cookie and plucks the strip of paper from the pieces. 

“ _Remember, you cannot have everything. Where would you keep it all?_ ”  
“The cookie has a point.”


	2. 1998

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She tumbles into the kitchen, all over-sized t-shirt and slouchy socks and rumpled hair and eyes still sandman-drunk. Reaches for the tacky "I <3 NYC" mug that's being held out for her to take. The one Debbie swiped for her the last time they were going through China Town.
> 
> Debbie might not be able to cook to save her life, might not be allowed to make much more than grilled cheese without Lou's supervision, but she makes damn good coffee. Lou asked her what she does to it once. Something about cinnamon. It was too early in the morning for the information to be retained.
> 
> [...]
> 
> "Something on your mind?"  
> "How do you feel about rigging a poker table?"  
> "Isn't that a little small-time for you, sweetheart?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else ever run into that awkward moment where you realize you've committed to writing a scene that involves a poker game, but then you remember that you don't play poker? No? Just me. 'Kay.
> 
> Enjoy ;)

**[May 7 th, 1998]**

She hates pretence.

Always has.

Doesn't have time for bravado or ostentation or unnecessary flash.  
She likes sleek and sophisticated and  
of course she likes a little bit of _circumstance_ when timing allows,  
but never at the cost of the rest.

" _Strawberries on a Saturday_ —really Danny? You could have just said the usual spot."  
"And where's the fun in that?"

She knew he meant the John Lennon Bench as soon as she heard the voicemail. She loves her brother, so she came, even if he drives her crazy sometimes.

She also knows they make quite the pair walking Central Park, barely past seven on a Saturday morning, in Burberry trench coats, Debbie's Louboutin's clicking against the pavement every step. Danny's are loafers but he likes the red soles because her brother is _all_ pomp and circumstance even when he's setting up a meeting with his little sister on the weekend. It makes her think about how much she'd rather be there with Lou. Lou, in her leather jacket and combat boots and all her rough edges. 

"Not that it isn't good to see you, Danny, but why am I in Central Park before a single mark worth having has even finished sleeping off last night?"  
"I have a job for you."  
"Us."  
"Us?"  
"I don't work without Lou."  
"Ha! That's perfect. I was going to have you draped all over Rusty, but draped all over Lou will be an even better distraction."  
"I'll ask her about it."  
"We're working a poker table—big payout. Tell Lou she'll need a new dress."

It's a surprise, if she's honest, that Danny seems so totally unfazed by the idea of bringing both of them in instead of just herself, having never met Lou in person. A pleasant surprise though. Debbie meant what she said—her and Lou are a package deal now. It also doesn't hurt that Danny's sliding a black credit card into her pocket while he's telling her to dress the part.

" _I'll_ need a new dress. I have something else in mind for Lou."  
"Whatever works. Just get her on board. See you both next week—I’ll call you with the details.” Danny makes to part company at the cross-path they've come up to. "Oh, and Bee-bee? Tell Lou I'm looking forward to meeting her."

 

*

 

It's just after 8am when Debbie walks back into their apartment. Lou's still asleep, though she's moved from her usual side of the bed to Debbie's in her partners absence. Debbie closes the bedroom door, a quiet click when it latches, moves towards the kitchen.

The smell of coffee coaxes Lou out of bed, even if it is earlier than she ever wants to see the day; even if she only crawled under the covers four hours earlier after a closing shift at the bar she works at in an attempt at having a cover for their more  _extracurricular_  activities. 

She shuffles into the kitchen, all over-sized t-shirt and slouchy socks and rumpled hair and eyes still sandman-drunk. Reaches for the tacky "I <3 NYC" mug that's being held out for her to take. The one Debbie swiped for her the last time they were going through China Town.

Debbie might not be able to cook to save her life, might not be allowed to make much more than grilled cheese without Lou's supervision, but she makes damn good coffee. Lou asked her what she does to it once. Something about cinnamon. It was too early in the morning for the information to be retained.

Lou leans back against the edge of the counter, mug cradled in her hands. Debbie's quiet, perched on the edge of the kitchen table barely a few feet from where Lou is, despite being tucked right into the corner of the under-sized space. She’s waiting on Lou to drink her coffee, to come back to the land of the living for the day. It doesn't go unnoticed that she's fidgeting.

"Something on your mind?"  
"How do you feel about rigging a poker table?"  
"Isn't that a little small-time for you, sweetheart?"

It isn't untrue. Debbie graduated from poker-table cons by the time she finished her undergrad, but—

"This is a bigger table than we usually play—with Danny and his team."  
"How big are we talking?"  
"Back-room deals to buy-in, big."  
"And why exactly would I want to third-wheel on Team Ocean?" 

Debbie pushes off the edge of the table, crosses the two paces between her and Lou, plucks the mug from Lou's hand to take a sip for herself, gives it back, smiles Lou's favourite smile—the one that crinkles her nose.

"Because  _we're_  a team. And because two cuts from six is more than one cut from five."  
"You do make a good point." 

Debbie's nose crinkles again and Lou's eyes are shining. She's on board and she knows it and Debbie knows it and she knows that Debbie knows it even if she hasn’t admitted to it quite yet. So, Debbie sweetens the deal. Slides the black credit card out of her pocket, holds it up between her index and middle finger for Lou to see.

"Danny wants us to look the part. Gave me carte-blanche."  
"I've always wanted to wear Armani."

 

*

 

And Lou does wear Armani well.

The bespoke tailoring, the silk lining, the way the fabric hugs her curves feels  _delicious_  moving against her skin when she moves to zip up the back of Debbie dress. 

"I don't remember the last time I wore a suit that fit me this well."

Debbie slides into her sex-on-stilettos pumps, legs trailing on and on in the long-sleeve, form-fitting, thigh-grazing black lace dress. Then she's in front of Lou again, fingers smooth over the satin lapels of the otherwise matte-black jacket, fiddling with the single button, toying with the untied bowtie draped around her neck.

"I do." 

The memory is soft; so are the implications. They hang in the room, wrap around them both the way Lou wrapped around Debbie when they danced in that dark parking lot after prom, and then—

"Come on, if we're late Danny will never forgive me."

 

*

 

Lou holds out her hand without lifting her eyes from her cards when Debbie re-enters the softly lit back room of the club where they’re playing. The vague sounds of a bass-drop filter in before the door drops closed and mutes any noise from outside again.

Debbie slips into her lap, slides a fresh drink in front of her, makes a show of whispering in her ear—

"You should wear Armani more often. I like it."

—leaves a smudge of lipstick behind against her jaw, and the eyes around the table are far too preoccupied watching the show they're putting on to take any notice of the ace of clubs Debbie slips into Lou's sleeve. 

Lou sips her scotch and raises the bid and leans back in her chair, tugs Debbie back against her with an arm around her waist. Ghosts her lips over Debbie's shoulder—  
  
"You're beautiful."

—trails a finger up the outside of her thigh, let’s _herself_ bleed into the act for just a minute while Rusty plays his part, too.

And it works. Perfectly. Because Lou is more of a poker shark than Danny could have ever hoped for, but Debbie's known that for a long time. Lou has all the patience in the world for the long game and keeping count and having a beautiful woman pressed up against her, and the fact that it's  _Deb_  wearing that short, tight dress doesn't hurt.

 

*

 

Even after Linus nearly blew his cover, and Rusty nearly strangled Linus, and Debbie could feel Lou’s fingers digging into her hip where her arm was still wrapped around her waist, coaxed Lou to play her part through all of it with her own fingers working pressure out of the tensed-up muscles down the back of Lou’s neck, their cut could easily cover rent for the rest of the year, wired directly to Debbie’s bank account two days later, plus the four straps of perfectly stacked hundreds that Danny hands over on the spot, outside the back entrance of the place.

“Let them do their family business,” Rusty says to Lou with a grin. Inclines his head and wanders off for a smoke with Lou in tow. They won’t go farther than where the alley turns into sidewalk, but they give Danny and Debbie a minute while cash changes hands.

“So Lou’s your—”  
“—Partner.”  
“Right. And you’re her—”  
“—Hers.”

Debbie means that’s she’s Lou’s partner. That’s how Danny takes it. It doesn’t feel like enough, to Debbie. Doesn’t feel big enough or significant enough for what Lou means. But the thought is cut short when they join Lou and Rusty on the sidewalk and Lou’s got her arm back around Debbie before they even part ways with Danny and Rusty, and start walking down the busy New York street.

“So where to next, Debs. Please tell me you’re also too wired to go home just yet?”  
“Dealers’ choice, honey.”

 

*

 

They come home buzzed on top-shelf liquor, and silly, and a few bills from one of the straps poorer, but a chrome Rolex that Debbie slipped onto Lou’s wrist after she disappeared into the crowd with a man Lou was _almost_ jealous of until Debbie reappeared with the treasure, richer.

Lou sheds her suit, hangs it meticulously in its bag on her side of the closet; shrugs into leggings and a t-shirt and unzips Debbie before venturing to the kitchen to see what’s edible in the fridge that doesn’t require more than a microwave.

Debbie opts for sweatpants and a tank top and washes the make-up off her face before searching-out her partner. Finds Lou sitting on the couch with half a box of leftover mu shu chicken, two sets of chopsticks sticking out, their stacks of cash shucked onto the coffee table.

“Would you hurry up and get your pretty ass over here? I’m starving.”

Debbie shakes her head, but crosses the room to the couch and nearly sinks down onto Lou’s lap.

Lou’s lap where she was perched through most of the poker game, tucked up close where she could smell Lou’s perfume, and see the little crinkles right at the corners of her eyes. Where she ended up again at the bar of the club they ended up in afterwards, when they were waiting for their drinks and there was only one stool open.

She catches herself, just barely, steps over Lou’s legs where they’re sprawled out towards the coffee table and sits down right beside her instead. Throws her legs over Lou’s lap and reaches for the set of chopsticks Lou hasn’t already claimed.

Lou’s content with the arrangement, or if she isn’t she doesn’t say anything. Digs another bite of chicken out of the container in her hand and Debbie does the same but also keeps getting entranced by the slice of Lou’s jaw while they both chew quietly. 

Lou hits the bottom of the box and pushes the last bite towards Debbie’s chopsticks.

Debbie smiles, picks it up, holds it out towards Lou in silent but insistent offering. And Lou’s pillow-soft pink lips—the same ones that brushed her shoulder and her neck earlier in the night when they were under the cover of playing a game—wrap around the chopsticks, and her eyes hold Debbie’s. 

She doesn’t need to say thank you because Debbie knows. Feels a buzz in her veins that’s warmer than the one from the alcohol.

Lou’s the one to break the moment.  
Averts her eyes and moves to take the watch off her wrist to add to their pile of winnings. 

“Keep it on.” Lou looks confused. Debbie shrugs. “It looks good. Besides, we’ve got more than enough here for rent.”  
Lou refastens the clasp and cleans the watch face with her finger and stands. Kisses Debbie’s forehead, says, “’night honey,” heads to the bathroom to shower.

Debbie crawls into bed. She curls up on her side, and faces the wall, and tries to sleep. Has her conversation with Danny on repeat and can’t drift off with the single word that keeps going through her mind over and over.

Lou tiptoes into the room smelling like peach soap and vanilla shampoo.

_Hers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments inspire the author <3


	3. 1999-2000-2003

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debbie's restless. The apartment is quiet and she doesn't like it. It's unusual for her—missing the presence of noise. But Lou's noise doesn't count. The sounds of Lou moving about their space to make coffee, or dinner, or trying to find the vest she tossed across the room after coming home from work too tired to hang up or put in the hamper properly turned into comforting backdrop years ago.
> 
> [...]
> 
> And Debbie winks the wink that crinkles her nose and Lou goes to find a clean wineglass in the drying rack.
> 
> [...]
> 
> The first tell she notes is the significant lack of pockets that Debbie picks walking the three blocks between home and the new bagel shop. It’s not a problem, isn’t even totally unheard of for Debbie to take a few hours off here and there, and they don’t need the money for the time being. But still, she’s usually relentless. Likes the challenge even when it isn’t much of a challenge at all. Likes to remind herself that she can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm really into producing word counts this month... not sure how often updates will continue coming out QUITE this fast, but I am here. for. it. while my brain is!
> 
> Enjoy <3

**[May 7 th, 1999]**

It's become an anniversary in her mind.

Never explicitly stated and never discussed and never celebrated outright.  
But it's there. To her, at least. Year after year.

It's the date and the time and the place that turned her entire world inside out;  
changed all of her trajectories.

It's always been more.  
_She's_  always been  _more_

 

Debbie's restless. The apartment is quiet and she doesn't like it. It's unusual for her—missing the presence of noise. But Lou's noise doesn't count. The sounds of Lou moving about their space to make coffee, or dinner, or trying to find the vest she tossed across the room after coming home from work too tired to hang up or put in the hamper properly turned into comforting backdrop years ago. 

Lou's out. Lou's out on a date. Lou's out on a date with a bombshell of a brunette, who showed up at the door with smoky eyes and deep-red lips, made Debbie feel like the proverbial stepsister. She knows she has no claim over Lou in that regard. Knows they aren't item. Knows that Lou isn't  _hers_ no matter how many times over she realizes that  _she_ belongs to Lou. And more than anything else she wants Lou to be happy and it might be an anniversary in her mind but that doesn't mean it has to be one in Lou's. 

She opens a bottle of merlot that she nicked off the shelf of the liquor store on her way home from a walk through Time Square, where the crowds were a welcome albeit brief distraction. Opens the bottle and fills a thin-stemmed glass far higher than typical rules of engagement would dictate.

She thinks about putting on a record.  
But the record player is technically Lou's and the thought of it is  _too much_.

She sits in the quiet and sips her wine and tries not to wonder whether Lou will home before tomorrow morning.

 

*

 

“So, Lou, tell me, what do you like to do when you aren’t serving tequila to beautiful women?”  
“I keep busy.”

The tapas bar is nice. Candles on the tables, and pressed tablecloths, and a respectable liquor selection, and just off the beaten-track enough to indicate that Shannon has good taste. Shannon is also beautiful and she knows how to play it up, and it’s funny because if it was _Deb_ tossing that same line out at Lou her eyes would sparkle, and she’d smirk, and she’d love knowing Deb knows how Lou feels about her. But this woman implying what Lou thinks grates.

Lou’s annoyed. Not with Shannon and not with the restaurant. With herself, mostly.  Annoyed with herself for thinking she could forget about the date on the calendar by agreeing to let a girl from last Friday’s bar crowd take her out.

“Your roommate seemed nice.”  
“Deb? Yeah. We go back a long ways.”  
“And she’s your—”  
“She’s my?”  
“What is she to you?”

She’s annoyed with herself for thinking she could want this woman. This woman who might have looked like Deb in the dim lighting of the club, after a few shots. Who might still look like Deb if she squints. But who’s eyes don’t sparkle like Deb’s, and who doesn’t know her inside-out like Deb, and who she can’t actually be honest with about what she does with her spare time, like Deb.

“She’s—it’s a very long story.”  
“I’ve got all night.”

Shannon winks a wink that doesn’t crinkle her nose.  
Lou pulls a couple bills out of her pocket, tosses them on the bar-top to cover their drinks, stands.

“Yeah, well, it’s a story I haven’t finished telling myself just yet. There’s somewhere I need to be.”

She doesn’t wait around long enough to see Shannon’s reaction.

 

*

 

“You’re home early.”  
“Yeah, well—” she bites her tongue against the confession welling up in the back of throat. _She looked like you but she wasn’t you and I wanted to spend tonight with you because it’s_ our _night._

“That bad?”  
“It was fine. Restaurant was nice. I’d rather be here.”  
“Bottle's on the counter in the kitchen.”

And Debbie winks the wink that crinkles her nose and Lou goes to find a clean wineglass in the drying rack.

**[May 7 th, 2000]**

The century turns and the world doesn’t end and Debbie’s world explodes on New Year’s at midnight.

She’s drunk. Not drunk enough to not remember, certainly not drunk enough to not be able to stop herself. She’s the kind of drunk that leaves her happy and warm; just a little more drunk than she usually lets herself get because tonight is for celebrating and they’ve got enough to cover the bills and she doesn’t need to work any marks, just needs to be alert enough to make sure nobody marks her.

And when the confetti flies she steps into Lou’s space, pulls her forward by the collar of her shirt, and kisses her.  
And Lou kisses her back.  
Kisses her back soft and then hard and then hungry.

Tastes like fake champagne and cheap gumballs, and the next morning when she kisses her all over again she tastes like coffee.

And it clicks into place.

Lou is _Lou,_ setting up her record player while Debbie arranged the coinciding vinyl collection in their first studio apartment. 

_“I’ve never let anybody else touch these before this, you know.”_

She’s _Lou,_ ordering more than she’ll eat every time, even when Debbie says she isn’t hungry, because she knows Debbie will pick off her plate and she knows that she’ll let her do it.

 

And Debbie is _Deb,_ stealing audaciously beautiful things for Lou because she knows Lou won’t do it for herself.

She’s _Deb_ , squeezing Lou’s hand when she heard about Lou’s family, and baggage, and all the hangups that go along with running away from home when she was 14, and then away from Australia at 16. 

And she kisses her and kisses her and kisses her.

 

*

 

And then, it’s been five months and Debbie isn’t sure she’s ever been this happy for this long.

 

**[May 7 th, 2003]**

Lou leans against the doorframe, taking in the sight of twisted covers and dark, tangled curls. Smiles softly, steps into the room with a cup of coffee—not as good at what Debbie makes, she knows, but still good enough to be worth waking up—runs her free hand up the lines of Debbie’s calf where it sticks out from under the sheet, sits on the edge of the mattress.

“Hey sleepyhead.”  
“What time is it?”  
“Just after ten.”

It’s uncommon for her to sleep more than five or six hours at a time, at all. Even more uncommon to have slept this long past Lou getting up, but, Lou figures she deserves a few languid mornings after last week.

  

*

_Debbie was up and out long before Lou woke up. That was normal. Especially after a late-shift bartending._ Especially _after that late-shift turned even later when a too-drunk customer turned into a fist-throwing customer and the cops got called and a report had to be filled out. Nothing more serious than a bruise on Lou’s upper arm, and a couple broken glasses, but nevertheless._

_She had another shift that night, not closing the place down, though, thankfully. Debbie knew she’d appreciate getting to sleep in, would see her when she got home somewhere around midnight._

_She got home from her solo adventure, emptied her pockets onto the surface of her bedside table, caught sight of the flashing light coming from the machine sitting on the dresser-top indicating a new voicemail. Clicked_ play _to hear the voice of one of Lou’s co-workers._

“Hey, Debbie? It’s Jonah, from the bar. Lou’s here. She was really tired last night and she’s not looking too good—”

 _“I heard that.” Lou’s voice comes through in the background, rough and strained.  
_ _“Whatever, Lou. You’re still a ten.”_

“—I’m going to assume you heard that. She’s not great. I’d rather not just send her on her way. Any chance you could come get her?”

 _She was halfway back out the door before she even checked her watch—Danny’s watch, he’ll probably steal it back from her the next time she sees him—for the time. Barely four on a Monday; the bar wasn’t open for the night yet, which was a bit of a relief all things considered, made it easier to just walk in the door and find all six feet of Jonah at the bar with floppy straw-coloured hair, slightly maniacal green eyes, and the most naïve sense of humour Debbie’s ever seen in a bartender, filling racks with clean glasses._

_He looked relieved to notice Debbie, nodded towards a table off to the side where Lou was sprawled in a chair wearing painted-on jeans, and a vest-as-a-shirt, and her favourite boots, head down and resting on her folded arms. All long limbs, legs strewn out under the table._

_“Gave her an Advil and a Gravol.”_

_Debbie nodded, turned, crossed the floor in fluid steps. Stood between Lou and the rest of the place, granting whatever level of privacy to her other half that she could, given the situation, knowing just how much Lou hates showing anything that she might consider weakness. Gently ran a hand over Lou’s back, fingers carding through her hair._

_“Debs?” Lou lifted her head, looked at up Debbie with cloudy eyes and a complexion more pasty and her usual fair._  
_"Hey baby. Feeling rough?”  
_ _“I’m good. Just need the Advil to kick in.”_

_“She’s been saying that for an hour.” Jonah’s voice carried from across the room._

_Debbie reached out, cradled Lou’s cheek in a palm. Lou sighed, closed her eyes again, nuzzled  into the touch while Debbie sank into a chair beside her, lowered her voice even a little more so that nobody else would be able to hear them talking._

_“Lou, it’s just you and me.”_

_It took a few moments, silence filling the space, for Lou’s eyes to open again. For her eyes to open a little glassy, and a little wet, peering at Debbie with all of the walls she usually keeps up when they’re anywhere but at home tumbling down. Silently pleading with Debbie to give her permission to be anything less than alright, and_ oh, Lou _, begging to be allowed to not pull in the paycheque she’d said she would._

 _“Debs?”_  
_“Mhm?”_  
_"Can we go home?”  
_ _“Yes, baby. I came to take you home.”_

_She grabbed the jacket hanging over the back of Lou’s chair, slid it up Lou’s arms and over her shoulders and tucked the collar around her neck to keep out the breeze and Lou’s eyes went a little more watery and Debbie swallowed thick and wrapped her arm around Lou’s waist, tight. Nodded to Jonah as she ushered her out the back door._

_“Think you can manage the subway?”_  
_Lou’s head shook, barely noticeable._  
_“Want to take a cab?”  
_ _“Can we walk?”_

_It isn’t very far—just a handful of city blocks. Lou usually walked to and from every shift. But this was different, and if she’d been able to handle the motion without getting sick Debbie would have been more than happy to spend the money on getting Lou home as quickly, comfortably as possible._

_As it was, they walked. Debbie’s arm steady, Lou leaning far more of her weight than she would usually allow Debbie to take, tumbling towards the bathroom when they were_ finally _home._

_Debbie trailed behind. Appearing as Lou reached out, shakily flushed the toilet, gladly accepted the offer of mouthwash and then water. Debbie tied her hair back in anticipation of the next round, and wrapped a soft blanket and herself around Lou on the floor. Lou burrowed into Debbie’s neck, groaned._

_“You’re going to get sick next.”  
_ _“Oceans don’t get sick, baby.”_

*

 

“You still wanna try that new bagel place that opened around the corner?”

Debbie blinks once, twice, three times; rubs the sleep out of the corners of her eyes, looks up at Lou, doe-eyed, takes a second to answer.

“Yeah, if you want.”  
“Alright darling?”  
“Hmm? Yeah. Just let me get dressed.”

That should have been the first tell.  
Lou kicks herself for it later.

The first tell she notes is the significant lack of pockets that Debbie picks walking the three blocks between home and the new bagel shop. It’s not a problem, isn’t even _totally_ unheard of for Debbie to take a few hours off here and there, and they don’t need the money for the time being. But still, she’s usually relentless. Likes the challenge even when it isn’t much of a challenge at all. Likes to remind herself that she _can_.

The place is packed—line winding all the way back to the door and Debbie’s fingers might have been uncharacteristically un-sticky on the walk over but she’s still an Ocean and slips them in halfway up the line without anybody the wiser. Stands beside Lou waiting their turn and leans her head on Lou’s shoulder and it happens fast—that more of Debbie’s weight than usual rests against Lou while they’re standing there, that she looks down to see the colour in Deb’s face draining out, that Debbie mutters—

“Need some air.” 

—turns and sways when she stops turning but the world continues. Feels Lou’s hand—long, gentle fingers—close around her shoulder.

“Debs?”  
“’M fine. It’s hot in here. Or cold? Aren’t you cold and hot?”

A bit more colour drains out of Debbie’s cheeks. Lou shifts, wraps Debbie under her arm.

“Let’s go home, sweetheart.”  
“But—bagels?”  
“I can come back, Debs. Home.”  
“’Kay.”

 

*

 

Wrapped in the duvet off the bed, Debbie weakly protests Lou pulling her back against her chest on the couch.

“You don’t have to.”  
“Shh, it’s alright sweetheart. Besides, you can’t get me sick. I already had it.”

Lou’s been trying to tell her she’s running a fever of 103, but she can’t stop shivering. Runs out of resistance, curls into Lou, let’s herself realize that maybe it’ll be fine if she lets somebody else hold the control for a little while—if it’s Lou.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments turn the author to puddles of mush <3


	4. 2010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debbie knows this game that Lou's playing, and knows it well. Knows how to play it to have Lou aching to be touched all over again by the time they get back to their apartment. Doesn't touch her outright on the walk—shoulders bump, hands brush, hips sway—and she's got Lou pressing her into the inside of their door as soon as it's closed and locked behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and the word-count-producing-trend continues.
> 
> Little less confident in this one... But I hope you all enjoy!

**[May 7 th, 2010]**

They’ve been to this club almost a hundred times over the years.  
Not any more than that.  
Familiarity in their line of work is a dangerous pastime.  
So they only go often enough to know the place without the place knowing them.

Debbie sends Lou a wink and a nod and fades into the dancefloor, playing coy, letting herself be led by what looks like a trust fund frat boy whose wallet is probably worth enough to steal with or without the contents. She heads back towards the bar after passing him off to somebody else on the dance floor, a pair of crumpled fifties in her hand to cover the first few of however many rounds—not anywhere near enough to even count towards their spoils for the night, but somewhere to start.

Lou’s standing at the bar and Debbie’s blood boils.

Lou’s standing at the bar with her eyes dripping down into the cleavage of a bleach-blonde in a dress that doesn’t look anything other than cheap, and leaves little to the imagination. Well, she doesn’t look anything other than cheap until she turns and the body chain pouring from around her neck, down between her breasts, and under the plunging neckline of her dress catches the light.

Debbie’s blood lowers to a simmer. Lou’s after a new magpie-treasure.

Still, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the only way to get the thing off of the girl and Debbie’s stomach churns. They—her and Lou—haven’t ever actually talked about it. They fell into each other’s beds the same way they fell in with each other to begin with—all unspoken understanding and silent agreements and the bits and pieces they do say out loud are whispered and fragmented. She knows that’s as much on her as it is on Lou, doesn’t know how to _fix_ it. Every time the words well up in her mouth Lou kisses her or she kisses Lou or they find a mark, and she swallows them back down and settles for a hand on Lou’s waist, and a thought of _will say them later_.

Debbie hovers, can’t force herself to stay away. Keeps far enough that Lou’s new friend won’t see her; close enough that she knows Lou will all but feel her breathing down her neck. Hovers until the blonde excuses herself to the restroom and Debbie catches Lou’s eye with a _look_ that tells Lou she is going to follow her down the barely-lit back hallway beside the bar whether she planned on it or not.

“Settling for knock-offs now? Really, Lou?”  
“Debs, that chain she’s wearing is 18 karats. Stamp is on the tag at the back of her neck.”  
“Surprised you saw that. Didn’t see you paying much attention to anything other than her front.”

Debbie rounds on her in the narrow hallway. Lou leans against the wall.

“Are you _jealous_ , honey?”  
“I’m not jealous.”  
“You sure about that, baby girl?”

Lou doesn’t really feel any of the cocky that’s rolling off of her in waves. Pushes off the wall—decided—steps up close—softens—rests her hands on Debbie’s hips gently, assumes she’ll play along because she usually thinks it’s funny when Lou’s like this.

“And what if I am? Are you planning on going home with a mark and explaining it away when the make-up on your neck, covering the hickeys you got from me, smudges?”

Lou isn’t quite sure what to say to _that_ ; she wasn’t expecting _that_. She really _was_ just teasing. But now it’s turned serious and the feelings she usually does her best to keep a lid on are turning into words that are pouring out of her mouth before she can remind herself to think twice.

“Just how are the men you drape yourself all over for their wallets any different?”  
“I haven’t slept with any of them to get those wallets.” 

And Lou was definitively not expecting _that_ either. Really doesn’t know how to react. Still isn’t used to _having_ somebody. It’s been years of Deb-and-Lou, but the idea that she doesn’t need to have her guard up to some extent or another, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, still feels fresh and raw and absolutely terrifying every time she tries to wrap her mind around it. Doesn’t know what to do and turns a little heated to cover up the soft squishy parts she still protects on instinct. 

“What are we even doing at this point, Deb?”

And _that_ catches Debbie with her guard down. And it’s her turn to not know what to say because there aren’t any words. Aren’t any words big enough or long enough or wide enough for _Lou_ in her life.

Lou doesn’t do well with silence, though, not the kind of silence that they’re in the middle of, falls off the edge of whatever ledge she’s teetered on since Deb hauled her away from the bar.

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought.”

And Lou's turning and stalking down the hall and vanishing back into the crowd and Debbie’s standing under the emergency lights over the back exit, frozen in place.

Debbie knows what just happened, but she doesn’t have a clue what the _hell_ just happened.

Most of all she has no idea how to fix it. Pulls herself together on a breath in, makes her way back out the bar, orders one more round, gets to the bottom on the glass with no sign of Lou. Passes the girl in the cheap dress and the expensive body chain, at the bar talking up a man in a suit that barely passes for _fake_ Armani. Hands the girl behind the counter at coat check her ticket and watches while she retrieves the trench coat. Is close enough to see that the hanger one over—where Lou’s jacket had been left when they arrived—is empty. 

Goes home—no sign of Lou there, either.

Climbs into bed in another oversized shirt pilfered from Lou, draws her legs up to her chest, and lies there listening to the sounds of the pitter-patter of rain tap-tap-tapping against the window. 

She wonders where Lou wound up for the night. Thinks briefly about calling Tammy to see if she showed up there, remembers that Tammy left three weeks ago to backpack Europe with her new beau, and briefly wonders if Lou picked the lock. Wonders what all-night diner she’s sitting in, maybe what bar she’s getting shitfaced at. Tries to be too angry to care. Still wonders.

 

*

 

The rain is slow at first, then downpour all at once.

“Perfect.”

She’s only a few blocks from home. Has been a few blocks from home for an hour, maybe a little more. Has been circling the park in the next neighbourhood over, the side-streets, anywhere but the actual street their apartment building is on because she knows once she’s _there_ —

Lou sinks down on a bench in the middle of the sidewalk. Closes her eyes, accepts that she’s caught in the rain regardless of whether she hurries home at this point, or not, kicks herself mentally.

She didn’t even want that girl. Her and Deb have been restless of late, itching for something bigger than pickpocketing and rigging cheap tables and that body chain was Lou’s exact brand of distraction, and even though she might not admit it to out loud for the moment she was too busy imagining what that chain would have looked like draped over _Deb’s_ body, over _Deb’s_ curves and edges, nestled between her breasts. She was so busy imagining how that chain would look _on_ Debbie that she forgot to imagine how Debbie would feel about her _acquiring_ the chain. And, well—

She stands, shoves her hands in her pockets, turns towards home now when the cold starts creeping under her skin.

 

*

 

“You _are_ allowed to come to bed, you know.”  
“It’s raining.”

Debbie rolls over, turns away from the wall to face Lou standing in their bedroom doorway. She’s standing in their bedroom doorway, leather jacket soaked through, bangs dripping into her eyes over what looks distinctly like tear-stains, and what happened at the club doesn’t matter anymore. Debbie clambers out of bed and crosses the small distance to where Lou’s standing and pushes the jacket off of Lou’s shoulders, down her arm to land on the floor with a water-logged thud and wraps her arms around her.

Now Lou’s bangs are dripping onto Debbie’s neck where she buries her face, water seeping into the collar of the cotton shirt and it takes a minute, but Debbie realizes that Lou’s crying.

Lou collects herself before Debbie can figure out what to _say_ about the tears and straightens up, puts a step of distance between them. Debbie’s chest constricts, hand closes around Lou’s arm, fingers digging into flesh without even realizing until Lou speaks again.

“No point in both of us getting cold.”

Debbie’s hold doesn’t relinquish until Lou’s fingers start unbuttoning her wet shirt and she peels off her layers, shrugs into a sleep shirt of her own and climbs into bed after Debbie. Lies on her side so they’re facing each other and traces the planes of Debbie’s face with the pad of her thumb—brow bones, cheek bones, jawline—tucks some hair behind her ear.

“I haven’t been sleeping with anybody else, either.”  
“Don’t worry about it.”

She doesn’t like the idea of Lou with other people. But, she _assumed_ they were exclusive, and she pushed, and it blew up in her face, and she might not like the idea of Lou with anybody else, but she’s sure she wouldn’t survive _losing_ Lou. So it doesn’t matter. Well, it does, but she’ll make it work.

The thing is, Lou doesn’t want to sleep with anybody else. Doesn’t _want_ anybody else.  
Wants the shape of Deb beside her and under her and over top of her.  
Spends weeks worshiping her as an apology that neither of them ever manage to say out loud.

Because that’s how they work.

So, instead of saying the words she caresses them into Debbie’s waist, kisses them into her thighs, licks them down her throat for days, weeks, until she’s behind the bar, at work one Friday night—her birthday, actually—with thirty minutes to the end of the her shift, and—

“Vodka on the rocks.”

Lou doesn’t need to look to know what kind of vodka the owner of that voice drinks. Reaches for the Ciroc, flips the bottle a full turn in the air, just to show off, just because she can, pours a double, stops in her tracks when she slides it across the bar and looks up.

It’s Deb—Lou already knew _that_ —but she didn’t know that when she looked up Deb would be wearing a dress with a neckline plunging down to her waist, and a web of chains framing her collar bones, water-falling over her chest, disappearing under draped black silk, and Lou wants to follow those chains all the way to her belly button where she’s sure they fall to.  

“Happy birthday, baby. Thought I’d come pick you up from work. You can have your gift as soon as you can get if off of me.”

Of course Deb would turn even this into a con. Of course she’d know exactly what she’s doing while her eyes track every move Lou makes behind the bar, and her fingers toy with the fabric of the deep neckline, wrapping around the chain and unwrapping all over again just to repeat the process.

If it was anybody else Lou would hate it. She doesn’t like being toyed with, and she doesn’t like being circled, and she hates being manipulated. But this is _Deb_ and all of it is different because of that. It’s all part of the game they’ve been playing since that first job, that eventually led to that first kiss. All part of the foreplay that goes on for hours while they weave stories and versions of the truth for their marks, and weave around each other until they finally fall _into_ each other. Until all Lou has to do is run her lips over the spot on Debbie’s neck that sends sparks down to spine to have her all but coming apart at the seams.

Only this time Lou’s the mark. Lou’s the mark and she knows it, and she lets Debbie weave around her until the end of her shift when she passes her end of the bar off to Nick, the new-hire with his curly hair and baby face walking up to Debbie for the first time with puppy eyes. Smirks when she hears Debbie ask for “just the bill,” and the sound of Jonah clapping Nick on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, buddy. She’s Lou’s. None of us ever stood a chance.” Makes her way around the bar, through the “Employees Only” door.

The _click_ of a stiletto heel on the tile echoes behind her;  
a _tug_ looses her apron;  
a _yank_ hauls her by the belt loops into the employee bathroom.

“Feeling impatient tonight?”  
“Shhh, baby. You’ll need to be quiet if you don’t want to get caught.”

There’s a response ready to roll off of Lou’s tongue—biting and cocky and dripping in her accent and all of the things Debbie wants her to play at tonight. Debbie’s got the buttons down the front of Lou’s vest open, bra pushed aside, and her lips tracking across her collar bones and down to her sternum and over to catch a nipple in her mouth and the retort comes out as a moan instead.

Debbie’s lips pull away from Lou’s breast with a pop; sing-songs—  
“I said quiet.”  
—trails fingers over Lou’s ribs—belly—toys with the button on her jeans.

“You’re such a tease.”  
“Can you keep quiet?”  
“Yeah, Debs.”

Control isn't something Lou gives up lightly.   
Isn't something she gives up willingly to anybody but Debbie.  
Debbie knows that, keeps that part of Lou safe.  
Keeps the secrets locked up deep inside her where nobody else gets anywhere close. 

After everything she's learned about Lou Miller over all the years they've been  _them_ , the things that meant she didn't even have time to think about packing a photo album when she was running away from her father's house; the things that drove her away from Australia and the _favours_ she had to dish out in exchange for the cash she needed for the plane ticket that got her to New York; the things that meant she doesn't trust easily and hands herself over even less; after everything, nobody gets to touch Lou Miller with an unwanted hand ever again. Not if Debbie has anything to say about it. But she'll take every invitation that Lou gives to unravel her under her touch. 

Unravels her—  
unwinds her—  
take her apart piece by piece to put her back together again. 

Pops the button on her jeans and toys with the lacy waistband underneath.

"Do you have any idea how hot you look behind that bar?"

Lou smirks through the gasp that Debbie pulls from her lips. Drops her head into the crook of Debbie’s neck and squeezes her eyes shut when fingers sneak into her panties. Latches her lips onto the soft skin at the juncture of her shoulder, sucking and biting back the sounds rising up the back of her throat at the feeling of Debbie's thumb working tight circles, fingers hitting her sweet spot over and over.  

Cants her hips and arches her back when blunt nails stroke gently up her side, a hand weighs a breast, thumb flicks a nipple into a rosy peak. 

Deb  _knows_. 

She knows Lou's body and the ins and the outs. She knows that the leather and the motorcycle and the smirk and the lipstick mean that most assume Lou's the kind that wants to be  _fucked._ Sometimes she is. But Deb knows that it's the whispers and the gentle caresses and the slow-build that are her undoing.

And she pulls her lips away from Debbie's neck—leaves behind a deep burgundy smudge—finds Debbie's lips for a kiss she needs like air while the coil down inside her winds tight-tight-tighter with each twist of Debbie's wrist. Unseals their mouths for a shuddering inhale, breathes-out— 

"Debs?"  
"Yeah, baby?"  
"—love you."

Debbie feels the words as much as she hears them, Lou's lips brushing hers when she speaks.   
It isn't the first time she's said it. But the count is probably less than ten. 

They don't do  _words_ , they do actions. Words too easily become just part of the game, part of the mystique, and the web, and neither of them have ever wanted any of those things with the other.

And so the words don’t tumble out very often.

But every time they do, they settle inside her all over again. Not like the first time, but like every time the clock resets at the beginning of something new. She feels Lou building-building-building up to the edge, short pants against her neck, lips latching onto her skin again while she tries to keep quiet, and Debbie  _thrusts_  her fingers a little harder once and twice, wraps an arm around Lou's waist when she pushes her over the ledge. Presses into her a little more; memorizes the ways Lou's body against her own digs the chains over her front into her skin.

"Love you too."

Works her back down—attentive—until Lou’s lips pull away to reveal another blemish, this one more pink than burgundy, and her breathing evens back out. Removes her fingers, grabs Lou's gaze with her own and  _holds it_  while she sucks her fingers into her mouth, hollows her cheeks and licks them clean. Feels her breath catch for the way Lou's eyes go even darker, even so soon after release, watching her do it. 

Then Lou flicks that damn switch that has Debbie's insides reeling every time.  
Pushes off the door, stands up straight, purses her lips into a smirk, eyes alight—

"Well come on then. I want to get my hands on my present while it's still my birthday."

Turns, opens the bathroom door with a click, and struts out. Grabs her leather jacket off one of the hooks on the wall on the way out of the back room, stops and faces Debbie—

"Coming?"

Debbie knows this game that Lou's playing, and knows it well. Knows how to play it to have Lou aching to be touched all over again by the time they get back to their apartment. Doesn't touch her outright on the walk—shoulders bump, hands brush, hips sway—and she's got Lou pressing her into the inside of  _their_  door as soon as it's closed and locked behind them.

 

*

 

 _This_  may be the side of Deborah Ocean that Lou treasures most.

Brazen and bare above her;  
eyes closed, lips parted, thighs trembling,  
and on the verge of shattering at the next sweep of her fingers.

She unclasped the latch at Debbie’s back almost as soon as they hit the mattress, while Debbie was preoccupied getting Lou’s top off of her. Had a plan to get the remaining latch—at the back of Debbie’s neck—open, but was driven to distraction by the sight of her with the hardware _dripping_ down her body, can’t remember what that plan was.

She’s got her fingers buried, wet heat clenching down around them, other hand on Debbie’s waist to temper the rhythm that’s turned rough while Debbie leans down over her, hair falling around the both of them, runs her tongue over Lou’s jaw. 

“So beautiful like this, Debs.”

And she crests with a gasp against Lou’s shoulder, not very loud but more than enough for Lou to know exactly what she does to her, and the perfect opportunity for Lou to grab her by the back of the neck, bring her in for a searing kiss while she releases the second closure on the chain. Holds it up for Debbie to see she’s claimed her prize, fingers that were inside just moments before sticky where they grip Debbie’s thigh.

Debbie smiles, licks her lips, winks.

“Happy Birthday, Lou.”

Then, plucks the shiny gift from her fingers, coils it neatly on the corner of the bedside table, glances at the clock, begins sucking and biting a trail of hickeys down Lou’s neck, says,

“There’s another thirty five minutes left in the day, and it would be a waste to not use all of them celebrating you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make the author smile <3


	5. 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s the thing though, Debbie does need her. Needs her more than anything else in the world. Knows good and well that without Lou Miller there wouldn’t be Debbie Ocean. Most of all, knows that Lou’s never asked for much of anything—the last shot from the good bottles of vodka, dry cleaning for her suits being a given in the budget, whispers and soft touches in the dark—and it makes Debbie want to give her everything.

**[May 7 th, 2012]**

She sits at the kitchen table and   
sips her tea that's still too-hot

—loses a couple taste buds in the process, maybe a layer down the back of her throat—  
wonders if this is what it's like when  _she's_ out late working her shifts at the bar.

Knows it isn't. Also knows that it is.

Knows that the apartment being empty always feels a certain amount the same, but that the reason it's empty changes the charge in the air.

Knows that Debbie will be home before midnight, even if she isn't home yet. They always spend tonight together. This year will be no exception. 

She knows that she'll be home; doesn't mean she  _likes_ where she is.

Doesn't mean Lou likes that Debbie's out being wined and dined with Claude Becker. Doesn't mean she likes that Claude Becker gets to get anywhere close to _her_ Debbie. Doesn't mean she doesn't hate the _family-friend_ that put Claude Becker in touch with Debbie to begin with. 

She's only met that particular family-friend in passing, and that meeting wasn't intentional on Debbie's part. It bothered Lou, before, to be kept at arm’s length. Bothered her that Debbie wouldn't so much as entertain allowing Lou to go with her to _that_ meeting because they're passed keeping secrets from each other, and she's met Rusty more times than she could count if she tried. It bothered her right up until the day that family- _friend_ showed up at their apartment unannounced, knocked on the door, and Lou answered, and he leered at her until Debbie came to see what was going on and planted herself firmly between Lou and his gaze.

He’s a family-friend in the ways that Debbie's father got in too deep near the end of his career. Owes far too much to Danny be any kind of real threat, to even so much as think about crossing Debbie, and laying so much as a finger or phone call or proverbial olive branch on Lou would definitively count as crossing Debbie.

Even still, the leer crawled over her skin. If Debbie had turned around after the door closed behind him and said the word, Lou would have been ready to pick up and move and never look back. But when the lock clicked Debbie had noticeably exhaled.

 _"I didn’t want him to see you. He gets_ ideas _."  
__"He’s_ known _about me for a long time. How is_ seeing _me any different?"  
__"Honey, have you_ looked _in a mirror?"_

She still doesn't like that Debbie keeps her away from  _that_  side of the deal. But she does understand. Understands that it's Debbie trying to protect her. And so, she might not love Debbie working with Claude Becker, but she loves Debbie, and she knows that Debbie loves her, even if it did take years for that to sink in, and loathe as she might be to admit it, they need the cash flow. Bingo and cheap roulette tables aren't proving to be as lucrative long-term as they were at the outset, and a deal with an art-dealer is helping pay the bills for the time being. 

So Lou sips her tea, burns the back of her throat all over again, waits for Debbie.

 

*

 

She leans against the wall beside their apartment door, in the hall, takes a deep breath before going in.   
She hates that she's getting back after 11:00pm on _their_ day. Doesn't like it other days, either, but especially today.

She hates working with Claude.  
Hates working without Lou much as her-and-Lou are still in on the whole thing behind the scenes even if  _he_ is blissfully unaware of that fact.

Most of all, she hates the feeling of his hands on her body. Hates the way his callouses are rough against her skin, the way he  _takes_ , the way he looks at her like she's a  _thing_  he can claim.

Not like Lou. Not like Lou with long and sure fingers that push her to the edge over and over and over without ever asking for anything.

Eventually, she pushes off the wall and unlocks the door and smiles at Lou—tired—while she hangs up her coat. Be-lines for the bathroom, the shower. Steps under spray as hot as she can handle because she can't stand the smell of his cologne on her skin and can't stomach the thought of touching Lou, having Lou touch her with any part of him lingering. Lou deserves more than that. The _least_ she can do it give Lou more than  _that_ , even if she can't just give her  _more_. Scrubs and scrubs until her skin turns red and her eyes water and she drops the washcloth, braces herself under the downpour with her arms locked, hands flat against the wall. Tries to remember to  _breathe_.

Is broken from the circle her mind is running when Lou steps into the undersized shower stall behind her, slips her arms around her waist, kisses the back of her neck.

"We'll be okay, Debs."

Because, somehow, Lou understands, even if Debbie doesn't understand  _how_ Lou understands.

Lou nibbles on Debbie's neck until she feels her start to relax in her arms, spins her around, presses her into the wall, seals their lips together while her hands wander—fingernails over abs, fingertips up sides, palm cupping a breast, thumb flicking a nipple—until Debbie rips her lips away from Lou's, pulls in gulps of air, drops her head back against the tile, the whimpers washing over Lou along with the spray that's slowly but surely turning cold from running too long.

Lou turns off the water, steps backwards out of the shower stall, leading Debbie with her by the hand. Dries her gently with a fresh towel, herself after that, and tugs her across the hall, into the bedroom, into bed.

Wraps herself around Debbie under the covers.

Works her lips over Debbie's jaw, down her neck, bites and sucks a blemish onto her shoulder, then another one, and then a third. Fingers tweak a breast, squeeze a hip, ghost over her belly, slip between her thighs. And Debbie presses back into Lou, spreads her legs, turns her head, tangles her fingers in Lou's hair to drag Lou's lips to hers—scorching—while Lou's fingers play her body in all of ways that anybody other than Lou could  _never_. She comes tight around Lou's fingers with a gentle gasp. Lou pants into her neck, grinds against the back of her thigh, gets there herself as Debbie's coming back down. 

And then it's  _still_. 

And the stillness bleeds into peace, settles into both of their heartbeats. 

And they still don't say it much. It settles around them. Lou wipes her fingers on the sheets and tangles their limbs, and listens as Debbie's breathing evens out; stays awake until she's sure Debbie will stay asleep.

And she does—sleep through the night. But in the morning, in the kitchen, sitting at the table while Lou figured out breakfast, Debbie’s restless. Frantic, almost, in her energy and it’s unlike her.

“What’s bothering you?”  
“He wants me to pose as the seller.”

It spills out of Debbie unfiltered.  
Lou freezes in the midst of buttering a slice of toast.

“Absolutely not.”  
“It’s four times the money, Lou. This could be the last we have to work with him and we’d still be able to keep the lights on in this place while we figure out our next move.”  
“It’s too risky.”  
“I’m trying to keep you safe.” 

And Lou knows that. Knows that Debbie is keeping her as far away from the situation that involves Claude Becker and Ocean- _family-friends_ as possible for good reason, but it still gets harder every time Debbie goes out to work without her. Gets harder every time Debbie goes out to work and Lou isn’t there to make sure that _she’s_ safe, because she doesn’t trust Becker to have her back for a second if push ever comes to shove. 

Debbie feels at a loss. Just wants to take care of Lou for once in their lives. Lou’s spent a decade having her back, and making sure she had what she needed, when she needed it; working real shifts at a real job to help make ends meet.

“Keeping _you_ safe is supposed to be _my_ job. What else am I here for?”  
"What are you talking about?”  
“You don’t need me. We both know that. You’re an Ocean, for fuck’s sake.” 

That’s the thing though, Debbie does need her. Needs her more than anything else in the world. Knows good and well that without Lou Miller there wouldn’t be Debbie Ocean. Most of all, knows that Lou’s never asked for much of anything—the last shot from the good bottles of vodka, dry cleaning for her suits being a given in the budget, whispers and soft touches in the dark—and it makes Debbie want to give her _everything_.  

So, Debbie softens, and stands, and crosses the distance to where Lou is at the counter. Plucks the butter knife from her hand and lays it on the counter and waits Lou out. Waits until Lou’s eyes meet her own before she speaks again.

“Lou, you’re _it_. You know that. I need to know that you know that.”  
“I know. I know that. I know—I just—”  
“We’ll figure something else out.”

Debbie means it when she says that they’ll figure something else out.

Means to stick to it right up until Lou’s late coming home from the tenth shift at the bar in a row without a day off, and the smaller cons they’re running aren’t pulling in enough for her to cut back to the place where bartending is fun again. Comes home exhausted, again, and kisses Debbie’s forehead, and wanders off to change out of her leather pants and probably fall into the bed, fast asleep before Debbie even manages to join her.

And she meant it when she said that they would figure something else out.

But, she also meant it when she said she wanted to keep Lou safe, wanted to take care of Lou for once.  Texts the number scribbled underneath the official listings on the _Becker Gallery_ business card in too-embossed ink—

 _I’m in.  
_Read 11:45pm.

 _Good. Tomorrow at 5:00pm._  
Read 11:51pm.

—and goes to bed. Curls around Lou, lets the smell of her shampoo settle her nerves.

 

*

 

Lou sleeps through the morning. Sleeps until she has to get up to get ready to go work another shift at the bar. This one should end by 9:30. Gives them enough time to work a few small tables at the casino if they’re smart about it.

Debbie watches Lou get dressed, tame her hair, paint over the circles under her eyes. Feels surer in her decision with each swipe of Lou’s concealer.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?”  
“Tonight. We’ll go out.”

Debbie waits ten, fifteen, twenty minutes to be sure Lou isn’t turning around, hasn’t forgotten anything. Zips herself into a particularly slinky dress, leaves a note for Lou on the fridge.

_Pack for Hamptons. We’re taking the weekend off and I’m calling Danny to tell him we’re taking him up on the offer to use the house he has up there. After you finish packing, unpack half of it._

_It’s the Hamptons in the summer, you don’t need leather pants or five vests._

_-xo_

*

 

The phone rings. Startles her even if she’s been sitting in a chair in the kitchen staring at it for two hours. Well, staring at it in between reading the note Debbie left over and over and again.

Picks it up on the fifth ring. Doesn’t manage to say anything. Waits for the other end to break the silence first. 

“Lou?”  
“Debbie?”  
“I need you to listen to me.”  
“Where the hell are you?”

The confession comes out of Debbie in a single breath, all at once, no pause or space for Lou to interject until she’s vomited every last word out, until the puddle of it is lying in front of Lou on the floor. And Lou says nothing all over again.

“Lou? Say _something_. Please.”  
“Love you, Debs,”

and she hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had to deal with it.  
> But the sooner we do, the sooner we can get back to them being idiots in love withOUT Claude Becker causing trouble, right?
> 
> Comments feed the author's soul <3


	6. 2012-2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A decision about what, exactly, Tammy?"  
> "Whether or not you're going to forgive her."
> 
> Her cup hits the table with a bit more force than intended,  
> coffee sloshing up and over the sides, beading on the wooden table top,  
> utterly unapologetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm happy with this? Like, pretty sure?  
> But I'm unleashing it on the world because it has been a /week/ so far and I'm not sure I can edit anymore. 
> 
> Hopefully you all enjoy <3

**[May 7 th, 2012]**

 

The phone rings twice a day, every day.

She never picks up for either.  
Let's the caller ID confirm suspicions;  
lets it ring and ring and ring until voicemail kicks in.

There’s never a message.  
They know she wouldn't listen to it, anyways.

One call is always the courthouse, where Debbie's being held during the trial.  
One is always Tammy.

Lou won't take the calls. She's angry, so damn angry. 

If Debbie had just  _listened_  to anything but her gut for  _once._ And Lou knows, she  _knows_ that Debbie's gut is usually reliable, is usually something worth listening to, but wasn't _she_ worth listening to, too? And the anger tempers into sad, back to angry and lonely and sad all over again.

So, Lou won't take the calls but she spends each day sitting in the back row of the courtroom; hair slicked into a tuft of a ponytail, suit and shirts pressed, back ramrod.  

Spends most nights working. Picks up any shift the bar will give her, goes out to clubs on the other side of the city on nights they don’t need her. Works her way through the back pockets of half of Wall Street; has to make rent on her own, now, after-all.

Brings a girl home, blindingly drunk, one night. Looks down when her back is against the cool cotton sheets to find green eyes and pixie-red hair peering up from between her thighs asking what she wants. Kicks the girl out before she gets anything worthwhile from the whole endeavour because what she  _wants_  is dark, dark eyes, brown mussed waves peering up at her and a mouth smirking—sinful—because  _she_  hasn't had to ask what Lou wants, what Lou needs, what Lou likes and doesn't like in a long time.  _She's_  known how to work Lou's body for half of their lives. She isn't there to do that anymore, though. Isn't there to make sure Lou isn't quiet for too long or on her own too much or spend too much time getting lost in her own head. So she gets lost. Doesn't say much of anything other than bar orders and bar tab totals for the three weeks of the trial. Doesn't say much of anything when the verdict is read. 

_Guilty. Six years. Chance of parole._

She doesn't show up for her shift that night—calls in sick for the first time. Goes home from the court house, leaves the lights off, save for the floor lamp beside the couch. Finds her way to the bottom of the bottle of British dry gin her and Debbie snagged seven years earlier when they were in the UK. It's crisp, and it burns on the way down, and it's full of memories but only the ones that are long-enough removed to not be tangled in the spiral of where they are now. 

She's angry—furious and sad and maybe a little lost. If Debbie had  _heard_  what Lou said—but then, maybe Lou didn't hear what  _she_  said? She isn't sure anymore. 

Doesn't go to work all week. Empties the liquor cabinet she and Debbie stocked over the years. It takes a month for her to get to the very back, to the good stuff that they save for special occasions. Makes it to the bottom of those ones too. One bottle, one night, not-so-slowly at a time.

Bourbon from Tennessee. Lifted from behind the bar at Tootsies while Debbie played coy and Lou reached over the ledge. 

Tequila from Mexico, when they crossed the border to let things cool down for a couple weeks after a job in San Diego went off, but got just a little too hot right at the end.

Vodka that Danny sent for Debbie's birthday when he was working a job in Russia.

Tammy appears at the door after the vodka.

Well, Lou's sitting in the kitchen, ignores the knock on the apartment door, stares at her hands on the table, trying very hard to stay very still while her head pounds and her stomach churns, hears the unmistakable sound of the lock being picked. Tammy appears in the kitchen, six-month-baby-belly leading the way. Sets a cup of hot coffee from the cafe two blocks up and one over on the table in front of her, sits down across the table, raises an eyebrow at the scathing look Lou's giving her. Lou clucks her tongue disapprovingly, comments on the dark circles under Tammy's eyes.

"You look exhausted."  
"Thanks. I'm currently growing a new human-being, what's your excuse? Drink your coffee. It's your favourite."

Lou flits her eyes over the cup. It's turquoise with a brown kraft-paper sleeve. She's been to the cafe numerous times but it isn’t her favourite. It's  _Deb's_  favourite and Lou isn't sure whether Tammy knows that and did it on purpose or whether it really was an honest mistake. Is too hungover to comment on it either way, sips tentatively, decides her stomach probably won't rebel over coffee and sips again.

"You're going to have to make a decision, y'know—"

Lou eyes Tammy over the top of her cup. Tammy keeps talking.

"—probably sooner rather than later."  
"A decision about what, exactly, Tammy?"  
"Whether or not you're going to forgive her."

Her cup hits the table with a bit more force than intended,  
coffee sloshing up and over the sides, beading on the wooden table top,   
utterly unapologetic.

"Pretty sure I have the better part of the next six years to decide  _that_."  
"Come on, Lou. We both know she isn't going to sit pretty for her whole sentence and come back with nothing up her sleeve."

Lou rolls her eyes.

"Look, I get it. If you were to pack up and take off and never look back while she was gone I'd understand, and I'd back you on it."  
"But?"  
"But you're going to need to make a decision—"  
"—I do what I want—"  
"She isn't going to wait, isn't going to keep calling, forever."

And Lou doesn't say anything and Tammy feels a little desperate because she's been watching the two of them for the better part of a decade, now, and she's never seen anything like it. Isn’t sure she’ll ever see two people revolve around each other the way that Lou and Debbie were made to revolve around each other, again. Envies them, just a little, some days. Wouldn't wish that kind of connection to a singular person on anybody on some of the not-so-pretty days. But, ultimately—

"She loves you Lou. Would go supernova for you. You know that, don't you?"

And Lou snaps, just a little, just a fray, but enough for her tongue to lash out before the rest of her can catch up.

"Yeah, well, if she'd  _listen_  to me as well, just once in a while, we wouldn't be having this conversation."  
"I know."

Tammy sighs and stands and makes to leave the kitchen.   
Hugs Lou as best she can with Lou sitting stubborn.   
shows herself out.

Lou hears the door open, and click closed, and she's alone in the apartment again.

Sips her coffee, focuses on the way the warmth resonates through the cardboard and into her fingers.  
It tastes like Debbie, and maybe some of the warmth comes from that, too.

Because she was never not going to forgive Debbie,  
already forgave Debbie if she's being honest about it.  
It just took a little bit, to  _be_  honest with herself about it.

 

*

 

Debbie isn't expecting it when the first package arrives—through the kitchen, wrapped in plain brown paper and sealed with packing tape cut in neat strips. It was in the works, but she didn't think Rusty would have found strings to pull so quickly. It isn't from Rusty.

There's a box of tampons, a mini chocolate bar, a stack of packs of the cheap, unfiltered cigarettes that Lou would smoke when a job went well, when they were in their twenties, a sticky note on top of those, bold print, "Trade them, don't smoke them," and there's a piece of paper folded up into the middle of all of it, spiky scrawl in black ink haphazard in the middle—

 

_Miss you, Jailbird._

_-x_

  
—reads the words once and twice and two more times after that until she's memorized  _just_  the way the letters slant. 

Relief floods. Six years _is_ a long time, is going to _be_ a long time. She doesn't know who Lou will be in six years, or if Lou will  _want_ her in six years, doesn't know who she'll be in six years, either, really. But Lou will be  _there_  and that's all that really matters for now. 

So, she pulls a cigarette from one of the packs—not to smoke, but they smell like Lou used to when they were running young and hot and way too fast—wraps the scrap of paper around it, tucks them away, safe, where she'll always know where they are. 

She calls Lou when she finally manages to use a phone. It's short and brief and none of the things that she wants to say; good to hear Lou's lilt just the same.

They need Lou's record to stay clear, can't have her getting tangled in all the fallout from Becker while Debbie's away. Phone calls won't be an option very often. They settle on letters. Once a year—every year. It won't be nearly enough.

**  
[2013]**

_I bought the club. It's a lot, I know.  
_ _The owners wanted out and it feels nice to own something that's mine._

 _Yes, before you ask, I had to take a loan to do it. Had to forge some paperwork to do_ that _, but it's mine.  
__And yes, I plan on running it on the mostly-honest side. Mostly.  
__Don't worry, I'll come up with something to make it a little more exciting.  
__That something would be easier to come up with if you were here, but, well—_

 _It's been a year.  
_ _Still miss you, Jailbird._

_-x_

 

Not writing back was part of the agreement, but they never explicitly ruled out calling _entirely_.

So, Debbie calls when she can and when she knows Lou won't be home because if she can't write back they probably shouldn't actually talk on the phone. Leaves a message. Short and pointed and everything Lou could have wanted to hear from her, also not nearly enough.

"You should water down the vodka. Increase your margins."

 

**[2014]**

_You were right, Jailbird. About the vodka. Even if you did break the rules to tell me.  
__That's annoying, you know._  

_I used the money to buy a place. A loft, actually._

_Converted warehouse. High ceilings, and original tile-work, and wood floors upstairs, and beachfront across the road. Well, as close to_ beach _as New York can have._

 _I know you like apartments in the city, sweetheart, but I think you'll love this place too.  
_ _Plus, there's space to park my bike in the living room._

_-x_

**[2015]**

Solitary was a semi-calculated move even if she'll never admit to the parts that weren't.  
She couldn't take the noise, the sound, the blur anymore. Couldn't  _think._

There's no silence in a space that size with that many bodies even if they do mostly leave her to keep to herself save for once-a-month dispersal of goods.

She needed silence.

Even minus good behaviour she could be out in time to be home for May in 2018. She could be home in time to see Lou.  
Does the math.  
It’ll be a Monday that year—the first Monday in May.

And once she has it, it all falls into place.   
Not all at once, mind.  
Piece by piece, detail by detail, inch by inch by foot by metre at a time.  
The timing, the pacing, the spacing.

Until it's ready.  
Until she's ready.  
Until she can go back to her usual cell, when they decide to let her out of the box, run it over and over and again until it runs without a hitch. 

 

**[2016]**

_I thought about writing three months ago._

_But we have an agreement and I know how you like sticking to plans and I thought that maybe this wasn't the time to put a wrench into one of them._

_I saw Rusty.  
_ _I couldn't tell whether or not he actually thinks Danny is gone._

_I'm so sorry, Jailbird._

_-x_

 

**[2017]**

 

_You know, you'd have been home on parole this year if you'd just managed to behave._

_I've been wearing your leather jacket and using your fountain pens.  
_ _At this rate, by the time you get home the jacket will be stretched out for my shoulders instead of yours and the pens will be out of ink._

_Still miss you._

_-x_

 

**[2018]**

She still needs to keep her nose clean for two months and charm the parole board, but she also has things to get in order. This time, it’s her writing to Lou.  


_I need you to take out a credit line. Trust me.  
_ _I’m coming home, baby._

 _-xo_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make the author melt <3


	7. Doing Fine Enough to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A smirk tugs at her lips and her eyes go wide looking at Debbie from behind her fringe because she'd follow Deb over that cliff any time, any place and she can't help the way her voice goes a little smoky and her eyes go a little dark thinking about Debbie and jobs and working jobs with Debbie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* narratively, I know why Claude Becker was necessary. But my hopeless heart does not understand.  
> I so sorry.  
> But there's a plan, I promise ;)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this instalment :)

She leans on the horn,  
pulls in a gush of air,  
counts backwards from ten,  
waits.

Has been  _waiting_  for the last five years, eight months, and twelve days. Thought she’d get used to it at some point. Never did. Never did get used to the particular shape that’s been empty beside her.

Lou smirks when she catches a glimpse of Reuben inside. She already knows what speech he’s giving her—trying to give her. Already knows it won’t work, is a waste of time, really. Also understands his need to say it, if only for the sake of having the words be out in the open.

Then she’s there, in front of Lou in full form. Stepping out of the mausoleum under the shadow of a black umbrella. _Deb._ Footsteps clipping across the pavement because of course she’s in a new set of heels less than 24 full hours out of prison.

Her hair is longer than it used to be, tumbles halfway down her back and sways when she walks and it takes less than a minute for Lou to decide she likes it this way. Likes the way it looks, wants to learn how it feels when it’s this long, tangled around her fingers and—

Debbie slides into the passenger seat and Lou’s half across the centre console, pulling her in and wrapping her up and pressing her lips to her temple before she can fully register what she’s doing.

“Hey, hey, take it easy. Been in the slammer.”  
“Oh, I just thought you’d changed your number.” 

It Debbie’s way of asking for space without pushing her away and it stings a little, just under the surface, but the glint in Debbie’s eye turned brighter when Lou’s lips touched her skin and that softens the blow. Now that she’s this close she can see the new lines at the corners of Debbie’s eyes, the dark circles underneath that can’t quite be covered up completely.

She’s a little older, more tired than before, but she’s still  _Deb._    
_Lou’s_  Deb—  
_Probably_  Lou’s Deb.

Lou knows that she shouldn’t assume that Debbie still wants the same things that she did  _then._ Puts the car in drive and pulls out of the cemetery and focusses on the road and the rain and waits for Debbie to break the silence and direct the conversation.

“Did you get the credit line?  
“Not yet.”  
“Why not?”  
“Because I don’t know what it’s for.”

Debbie rolls her eyes.

“Don’t do that.”  
“Do what?” 

It isn’t a lie. She doesn’t know what it’s for yet, and well, she needs to.   
Even if Debbie rolls her eyes, even if Debbie smirks when Lou imitates her doing it.

 

*

 

"Hey. I brought you something."  
"Oh, can I exchange something you stole?"  
"Well, if you’re going to have a problem with stealing you're not going to like the rest of this conversation."  
"What, we're gonna shoplift?"  
“Maybe.” 

She isn't sure she buys the front Debbie might be putting on just yet. Six years is a long time to miss somebody, a long time to be without them, but two years is a long time too. It’s been two years since she wrote Debbie about Danny.

“No, see, this is what you do. You make me guess and then I’m interested, and then you think because I’m interested that I wanna do it—”  
“—don’t you want to do things you’re interested in?”

Two years is a long time to plan and to plot and to figure out the perfect way to bring somebody down. It’s even longer to do those things when there’s the right motivation and if Debbie’s going after whoever might have taken Danny away, well, Lou isn’t sure that’s a road she can follow Debbie down. Isn't sure that’s a road she can let Debbie go down. 

“Well, I’m interested in brain surgery—”  
“We know that’s not gonna happen.”  
“Whatever, you don’t wanna tell me—” 

It's her job to be the tether that pulls Debbie back when she's falling over the edge before they've had the chance to work all hiccups out. But, honestly, she isn't sure this is a ledge she  _can_  pull Debbie back from, if that's the point she's hit.

But then—

"It's jewels," Lou's breath catches in her throat. "Spectacular, great big blingy, big-ol’ Liz-Taylor jewels that are locked in a vault, fifty feet underground."

A smirk tugs at her lips and her eyes go wide looking at Debbie from behind her fringe because she'd follow Deb over  _that_  cliff any time, any place and she can't help the way her voice goes a little smoky and her eyes go a little dark thinking about Debbie and jobs and working jobs with Debbie.

"How do we get them out of the vault?"  
"They're gonna bring them to us." 

Debbie knows she has Lou, knows she has Lou full throttle, and Lou knows that Debbie knows, pulls herself out of the car and follows her up to the front door. Unlocks, opens, walks in ahead because she isn't sure she wants to see Debbie's first reaction to the loft. 

She bought it imagining Debbie in the middle of it--in the middle of high ceilings and wood floors and light coming in through the skylights overhead. And if it isn't what Debbie imagined—that just isn't something she thinks she can face right now, so soon after getting Debbie back, before she's really figured out just where she stands or what Debbie wants or where they're headed. 

So, she walks ahead. "Oh bugger," grabs the stack of mail by the entryway.

"Well, nice place." 

She can hear the smile in Debbie voice, just a hint of reverence.

"Try heating it,” Lou sifts through the pile of envelopes for anything she might care to read or file before recycling. "There's a room for you upstairs. Your stuff's upstairs too."

She decides she might be able to glance back, witness the reaction after-all. Throws a look and a grin over her shoulder and can't resist what comes out of her mouth next. "You know I borrowed some shit, figured you weren't using it."

She sees the smirk on Debbie's face. The smirk that pairs with a shake of her head when she sees the motorcycle that is, true to word, parked in the living room.

It's Debbie that leads the climb up the stairs, hesitant as Lou thinks she's ever seen her. Slow steps with her hand trailing light along the banister.

"Second-to-last door on the left." 

Lou leans in the doorway while Debbie circles the room, breathes in the space. She's turned quiet and Lou isn't entirely sure what to expect. It makes her uneasy.  

Debbie feels the silence just as deep as Lou does. 

Feels the air in the room shift when she finds the photo Danny on top of the dresser, traces the edges of the frame. Feels the air contract when she notices the book sitting beside the photo, the one she was reading just before getting put away. Thumbs through the pages. The bookmark is still right where she left it even though the book itself is technically a part of Lou's collection, was one she always read and re-read in between episodes of having to steal it back from Debbie. 

"I had a key cut for you."

Lou's voice startles Debbie, which throws Lou off a little in and of itself. She covers it well, stepping into the room-proper, slipping the aforementioned piece of metal into Debbie's hand. For her part Debbie seems a little overwhelmed, stays quiet, turns the key over and over in her palm until Lou clears her throat and worries the rug with the toe of her boot.

"Need to check on the club. I'll bring Chinese home later."  
"Mu Shu Chicken?"  
"Of course. Did you think I'd become a heathen while you were gone?"

 _While you were gone_. 

The words rattle around in Debbie's head.

Lou turns, exits the room, down the stairs, out the door.  
It's fine. Debbie has business to see to.

 

*

 

The club is always busy leading into the weekend. Her staff likes it when she’s around, and she’s made a habit of being there for the busy nights. Leading by example and all that. But, realistically, they could have done things without her just the once. 

She thought about it. She did. Thought about telling Jonah and her other managers she wouldn’t be in for a few days. Thought about picking Debbie up, and bringing her home, and putting on an old record they’ve heard a million times, and ordering delivery, and not letting Deb out of her sight for at least as long as it took to memorize every change, every new line, every scar she doesn’t already know intimately. 

But then Debbie was there.

Debbie was there and Lou was there wondering what Debbie _wants_ , now. Wondering if Debbie can even _know_ what she wants, right now. Debbie was there filling the space beside Lou that’s been empty for six years, pulling her in for the most audacious thing they’ve ever even dreamed of pulling off, and maybe _that’s_ all it is. Maybe _that’s_ all Debbie wants.

And she needed to remember how to breathe.  
So, she came to the club because it’s _hers_ , even if the vodka is _Deb’s_. 

After a few rounds of remembering what it feels like to breathe on her own she heads out.  
She did promise to pick up Chinese, after all.

 

*

  

The dress is near the back of the closet, dry cleaned and hung, tucked out of sight-out of mind, when Debbie finds it. Slips into it slowly, in front of the mirror. It still hugs all the right curves in all the right ways.

The trench coat overtop is for drama, but the dress, the dress is for memories. 

She wore it once before—to the first gallery show she worked with Claude.

Lou zipped her into it, worked her lips up the back of her neck, left a brand behind in deep red, over the top ridge of her spine, hidden under Debbie’s hair. Her quiet way of telling Debbie that she understood, she knew she’d come home to her, she’d _be there_ when she came home.

That particular scheme had her and Claude circling the event separately, he never got to lay more than a hand on her arm. His eyes though, his eyes tracked her around the room in that dress, making every intention of sliding her out of it later on plain to see. He didn’t get to. Debbie left right after the event on the excuse of keeping up the charade. Her cut was being wired directly, anyways.  _“I’ll be in touch.”_

She went home.  
Home to Lou.  
Home to Lou where soft hands adorned in cool metal rings peeled the dress away from her body.

If the look in Claude Becker’s eyes when he sees Debbie walking towards him is any indication he remembers the dress just as well as he remembers why Debbie would be pressing a shiv up against his soft- squishy parts, behind a pillar in his own gallery. He still doesn’t get to slide her out of it. She takes her prize and goes home. She got what she came for.

 

*

 

“Good timing.”

Lou’s setting the last of the takeout containers on the table, looks up when the door opens, turns away quickly, reaches for a plate to hand off to Debbie. If Debbie notices anything off about it she doesn’t say anything. That said, she’s preoccupied staring at the bunny mask perched on top of Lou’s head, trying to decide what she was up to before Debbie got back, and how much of a tip she might owe the delivery boy next time they order-in to make up for it.

“Dinner’s ready, Jailbird.”

Debbie follows Lou’s lead, sits, takes the chopsticks that are being held out towards her, tries to settle into her chair but can’t. Has to force herself to sit still, cross her legs, appear at-ease and comfortable.

She’s looking at Lou across the table. Lou in a silk robe, neckline falling open, bits of black satin and lace peeking out and Lou looks _good._ _So_ good.

“So, where did you get off to while I was at the club?” Lou breaks Debbie’s trance bluntly, and then turns her voice a little quieter. “When I came home to an empty place I wondered if you left.” 

“I’ll always come back, Lou.”

It true; she’s always- _always_ come back. But this time it was after five years, eight months, and twelve days, and so Lou doesn’t say anything because it’s _true_ but it’s also not. Pokes at her food. Debbie does the same and then—

“I went to finish some old business.”

Lou lifts her gaze back to Debbie at that. Searched her face for context to her next question.

“Gallery show?”  
“Gallery show.” 

There’s a half-smile-half-frown on Debbie face and revenge in her eyes when the words are coming out, but peace when she looks at Lou, catches her eye again. As soon as Lou takes _that_ in—the shift in Debbie’s eyes between talking about Becker and looking at _her—_ the whole thing gets a whole lot funnier than it seemed a few moments earlier. She takes another bite of food and speaks around the mouthful.

“He saw you?”  
“Oh yeah.”  
“Why would you do something like that?”  
“Closure?”  
“Bullshit.” 

The shiv slides across the table and Lou’s eyes go a little wide.

“Jesus… so did you—?”  
“Just a little button.”

They scoff and snicker.

It’s a little stilted.

Lou isn’t entirely sure how she feels about Debbie being face to face with _him_ so soon after getting out of prison, isn’t entirely sure how she feels about Debbie _choosing_ to be face to face with _him,_ even if she _is_ sure how she feels about the fact that Debbie came home. Came home to her. Came home to her the same way she _always_ has.

Debbie isn’t sure how to toe that line that was always so familiar before. The line where it’s okay for jobs and work to rule instead of feelings, instead of _them_. The line that blurred back then in all the ways that made her think about things like _forever_ , just once in a while, because it’s _Lou_ and thinking about Lou has always made thinking about those things so very easy, so very simple, even if they weren’t _really_.

But they laugh all the same. They laugh because they’re together and there’s a shiv made from a toothbrush and a mother-of-pearl button on the table, and those things just aren’t things that end up side by side all that often.

It feels good.

“So the wardrobe choice was deliberate, then.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Debbie avoids answering at first. Stands, collects empty takeout containers, moves away from the table to the kitchen to dump them in the trash, back to Lou.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember this dress.”  
“I do. I wasn’t sure you did.” 

And then Lou’s behind her, sweeping Debbie’s hair to one side before her hands fall to her hips and her lips land on that same spot over the top of her spine as they did the last time she was in that dress. Lou works her teeth over the skin until she leaves behind a mark that’ll take a few days to fade, maybe a little longer.

Hands fall away from Debbie’s hips when she turns, faces Lou, steps up close enough that her inhales are Lou’s exhales. Tangles one of her hands with Lou’s, backs towards the stairs, and Lou follows. As always. Beautiful, badass, poised Lou follows wherever Debbie leads even when it’s all but tripping up the stairs because she’s trying to take them backwards.

They walk past the door to Debbie’s room without even really realizing it. End up in Lou’s at the end of the hall, standing in front of the full-length mirror leaning in the corner, still facing each other. Debbie reaches out, tugs the knotted silk at Lou’s waist loose for the two sides to fall open. Lou’s hands fall back to Debbie’s hips, spin her around, comes to stand behind her again, watches their reflection while she released one hip to unzip the back of Debbie’s dress, slips her hands under the fabric, pushes and tugs until it pools, black and soft, on the floor at her feet.

Debbie watches Lou’s hands outlining the shapes of her. Sighs softly. Drops her head back to rest on Lou’s shoulder and Lou’s hands go still when she takes in all of the fine lines of _Deb_ in the mirror.

Sees the new scar on her belly, off to one side, small but _there_ where it wasn’t _then_. Sees the circles under her eyes that foundation and concealer really aren’t hiding anymore, in the dim light from the lamp on her bedside table. Brings her lips close enough to Debbie’s ear that the words are also butterfly kisses—

“Sit tight, Jailbird.” 

Lou slips away, out of the room, re-appears wearing leggings and a tank top, an oversized and faded _Blondie_ t-shirt in hand. Silently coaxes Debbie’s arms into the sleeves, shirt over her head, and it falls to mid-thigh and Lou wraps her arms around Debbie’s waist from behind again. Just for a minute. Just for long enough to nuzzle into the curve of her neck and breathe her in.

Catches Debbie’s tired eyes in the reflection again and her heart clenches a little because she knows just how much it takes for Debbie to let anybody see the sides of her that aren’t invincible, Lou sometimes included. She knows the bouts of insomnia and craving for quiet Debbie’s prone to. Knows that those are commodities not easily come by in prison. Knows what Debbie’s like when she plans—single vision’d and minded.

“You’re dead on your feet, Debs.”  
“No, I’m not”

Her head is tipped back against Lou’s shoulder though, eyes closed, fluttering open while she voices her protest, closing again after. Lou tugs her by the waist towards the bed, slow but insistent.

“Lay down with me,” leans back against the pillows, propped against the headboard, Debbie at her side. Cards her fingers through dark waves scattering down her back, over her shoulder, across the white pillowcase. Watches the way her eyes move under closed lids. Listens for her breathing to even out. Stays until Debbie’s still and a little longer after that and fights with herself and slips away. Slips out of the bed and out of the room and down the stairs and out the back door.

Stands on the porch out back the warehouse.  
Makes sure the door stays half open for any sounds from upstairs.

Stares at the water across the street until her own breathing evens back out.

Six years is a long time.

Six years is a long time and yes, there were letters and a phone call, and yes, there was forgiveness, and yes, there’s a job that’s no less than spectacular. 

But, six years—

 

*

 

Debbie counts out her inhales and exhales into the dark room  
—ten in, ten out—through her nose,  
chews her lip.

She forced herself to stay still when she felt Lou slip away. Slip away from _her_.

It took her a week. One week back when they were stretching money out and burning too hot and too fast and too long every time. One week to get used to being in Lou’s bed, long before _they_ were a _them_ that covered any more than partners, at least in practice and action. One week and she stopped being able to sleep without Lou sprawled out beside her taking up far more than half of the mattress.

She’s tired. She’s so damn tired.

There wouldn’t have been space on her mattress in prison for Lou to sprawl out the way she does, anyways. But the frequency with which she startled awake when she was inside, when her hand would reach out in her sleep and fall through nothing but air when Lou’s body wasn’t there—it was enough that one of her cellmates, early on, hauled her out of her bed by her hair after the gasp from her lip as she sat up straight disturbed their sleep on too many times.

This time, though. This time Lou could have stayed and she didn’t.  
And maybe how Lou feels changed somewhere along the way, along the time, along the distance.  
And that’s not _fine_. But she understands. She’ll figure out how to be fine with it. She’ll have to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Queries? Concerns?  
> All of the above?


	8. Doesn't Work Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She isn't expecting it to be there, on the top shelf, off to the side a little bit but right in front. The blue mug she always used to use. The last from the set of three they bought at a flea market for their first place—already one down from four, promptly went down to two the first time Danny came over, brought Rusty with him, and Rusty knocked Debbie's tea right off the end of the table telling a story about a casino in Vegas, animatedly; down to one during a hungover morning, when both her and Lou were probably closer to still-drunk and honestly aren’t totally sure which of them knocked the cup of coffee off the counter.
> 
> But there it is.  
> Like it's been waiting for her to come back, to come home all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than I had hoped, but I think it does everything I wanted it to do.
> 
> And now for a moment of shameless self-promotion: I have decided to try the whole Tumblr thing out... so if anybody wants to check me (and my rather lacking blog) put over there, blacklaceandchains.
> 
> Now back to our regularly scheduled programming. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

She wakes up all at once,  
grasping at nothing but air and bedsheets.  
Opens her eyes to see  _her_  on the other side of the bed.

Just out of reach, but  _there_.

Debbie watches Lou sleep—the even rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair falls over her face hiding her cheekbones, she loves Lou's cheekbones. Thinks about clearing the blonde tresses away, tracing over the dips and the valleys of her lips, remembers that she isn't really sure what Lou wants or needs or, loathe as she may be to admit it, whether Lou has somebody else to trace her outlines these days. 

So she doesn't; keeps her hands to herself.   
  
Climbs out of Lou's bed quietly, carefully, pads two doors down the hall to the bathroom to brush her teeth, then one door back down the hall to her own room. Gets dressed, goes downstairs to make coffee. 

She's still tired—only slept for a few hours. She was never very good at sleeping before prison, either. Wasn't expecting to somehow get better at it all of a sudden, in the afterwards, and after the night before—well. 

She makes the coffee a little stronger than she usually might, opens the cupboards in search of the mugs—third try the charm. 

She isn't expecting it to be there, on the top shelf, off to the side a little bit but right in front. The blue mug she always used to use. The last from the set of three they bought at a flea market for their first place—already one down from four, promptly went down to two the first time Danny came over, brought Rusty with him, and Rusty knocked Debbie's tea right off the end of the table telling a story about a casino in Vegas, animatedly; down to one during a hungover morning, when both her and Lou were probably closer to still-drunk and honestly aren’t totally sure which of them knocked the cup of coffee off the counter.

But there it is.  
Like it's been waiting for her to come back, to come  _home_  all along. 

She's perched on a stool at the counter, staring into the mug, through it more-like, when Lou comes downstairs surprisingly early, for her.

Lou pours herself a cup of coffee, leans against the counter across from Debbie, takes a sip.

"God, I missed your coffee."  
"You're awake very early."  
"A lot can change in six years."

She runs a semi-legitimate business now, operates on a bit more of a schedule than they used to.  
That's all she means by it.

It's a sucker-punch to Debbie's gut, though. She stares into her coffee a little longer, mulls all of the things that might have changed for Lou while she was gone. Even still, Lou kept a place for her in her life, kept a space for her in the loft, is the one to break the trance Debbie’s fallen into.

"So, what's first Jailbird?"

 

*

 

"We need a designer."

Rose is, for all of the planning and calculating that Debbie put into what they would need  _from_  a designer, partially luck of the draw. She's a little spastic, a little timid, and more than a little jumpy, and absolutely everything Debbie told Lou they need. Of course she is. Lou found her.

There were three complete versions of the plan. None of them worked without Lou. Debbie spent nine months, two weeks, and three days running each version over and over and again, without Lou and then with because she always knew she _wanted_ Lou beside her every step, but she wasn't sure Lou would want that. Accepted that none of it worked without Lou, that she can't  _do_  what she does without Lou, that she doesn't  _want_  to do any of it without Lou. 

Rose, on the whole, appears a little intimidated by Debbie and seems a little besotted with Lou. Par for the course. Even Rusty and Linus have loved Lou since she swiped they watch and wallet respectively before the poker game even started the first time they met her. She gave them back eventually, held them up to catch the light with a wink, "Should keep a closer eye on your pockets, boys."

 

*

 

Amita is an assumption. Her name was never on the roster in the same way as Lou's—never a necessity. The job could work with or without her, but Debbie's worked with her more times than most of her _co-workers_. Danny used to work with Amita as well, when they were still running with their father and tying up all of the loose ends he'd task them with during the after-math when it was _all_ loose ends and he was already on to the next plan, the next scheme, the next take.

Lou's met her, too. Went to her shop with Danny once, years ago now, to make some final decisions about stones running through the store. Debby couldn't go because she was busy seeing to some details with the fence her father had brought in who would only talk to the  _little lady_  of the family. It made Lou's stomach churn. Made her want to deck someone to see the way dealing with that particular member of that team made Debbie's skin crawl. 

"Go with Danny and help with the stones, Lou, please?"  
"Debs--"  
"I'll be fine. I just need to get it over-with and then my father can deal out our cut." 

 

*

 

"These are all Russians."  
"They're hackers."  
"Are there no hackers who aren't Russian?"  
"No. There's barely any Russians who aren't hackers."

Lou haphazardly folds one of the many discarded sheets of paper covered in lists of names into a paper airplane, shoots it at Debbie in an attempt to cut the tension she can feel rolling off of her in waves from across the table. It doesn't do much to help. It also doesn't make anything worse and Lou thinks it's funny. 

"Just, keep looking. Please."    
"Sure."

\---

“My name’s Debbie.”  
“Nine-Ball.”  
“What’s your real name?”  
“Eight-Ball.  
“We use real names around here.”

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

Debbie knows they need a hacker. Has known they would need a hacker since the second version of the plan. That does not mean she likes that they need a hacker.

Her reservations about Nine-Ball specifically are unfounded. Lou understands, though. Has had the lines of the jagged scar that wraps around Debbie’s ribs, to her back, on her left side memorized for a decade. Won't forget when it happened any time soon, either. Danny pulled them in for a job—it was supposed to be easy, just in and out. The hacker one of his team found, turned. Everything went South. Very South, very fast, and Deb got caught in the ensuing crossfire while Lou was clear on the other side of the building with Rusty.

Linus carried Debbie out. Hospital wasn't an option—too much risk of being arrested.

Lou sat in front of Debbie, who sat backwards on a chair in the middle of Danny's kitchen, holding her still and whispering softly while Rusty patched her up best he could. 

_"I know it hurts, baby, we're almost done."_

And,

 _"I'm so sorry, Debs, I'm so sorry I wasn't there."  
__"Not your fault, Lou."_  

And,

_"I'm here. I've got you."_

It took twenty-two stitches that healed messy.

Lou's a little leery of hackers too, ever since, but she's sure of Nine-Ball. Met her in person for the first time on the other side of the city from the loft—was never going to let her get anywhere close to  _home_ , anywhere close to  _Deb_  without vetting her first. 

Can tell Debbie’s on edge when she hauls her around the corner and steps in close. Levels her with a look that chastises— _as if we never did worse_ —and challenges— _we need a hacker_ —and most of all asks— _trust me_.

And Debbie relents. She trusts Lou. She trusts Lou more than she trusts anything else, even herself most days.

  

*

 

Lou’s known Constance for a while; worked with her before. Just once. Just one time when she needed twelve packs of the cheap, unfiltered cigarettes that she used to be able to buy at every other hole-in-the-wall, but aren't as easy to find anymore.

“Just wait. This girl's got some of the best hands I've ever seen."  
"Is this one sane?"  
"Hundred percent."

She can tell by Debbie’s tone that she isn't convinced, yet. Pulls her along. Sees the look on Debbie's face when Constance steals the watch right off that poor sap with just a handshake to work with and knows that Constance is in.

"Not bad."  
"Yeah, I thought so." 

She's got snark, Constance, part of the reason Lou likes her. When Debbie calls out the watches that Lou hadn't even noticed her slip from their wrists she sees the sheepish reverence. Sees the moment Constance falls in with Debbie, falls in behind Debbie, would follow Debbie right up to the edge of a cliff. She knows that moment. Learned that moment the first time Lou-and-Debbie worked together, decades ago now, just trying to figure out where they could be after high school.

Granted, Lou-and-Debbie were always partners. Always equals. That resonated deep inside Lou on a hundred different frequencies. Resonates through her core, her bloodstream, her gait.

 

*  


“What about Ivy?”  
“No, still in jail—what about him?”  
“He’s a him.”  
“So?”  
“So? I don’t want a him.”  
“Why? Because he’s a him or because he’s a _him_?”

Debbie briefly considers finding Lou’s paper airplane, wherever it is on the floor, to level back at her. Lou knows good and well that he _isn’t_ and Debbie isn’t sure what she’s trying to insinuate by asking anyways. Shrugs, rolls her eyes, doesn’t respond.  
_  
_ “What about Tammy?”

Tammy would be perfect for this job. It occurred to Debbie ages ago, she’s been avoiding the idea. Trying to find an alternative because Tammy’s been there for too much of her history with Lou. She’s too close. She’ll see right through the front Debbie’s been trying to put on to avoid the realities on not knowing what Lou wants and she doesn’t need to be lectured about how she went behind Lou’s back and lied and deserves what she got. She already knows that. Has known that for years.

They need a fence. A good fence.

She ambushes Tammy in her own garage. Unexpected. Works her like a mark and she’s pretty sure Tammy knows it but it means she gets what she came for and gets out before there’s time for extra questions.

She manages to avoid being on her own with Tammy, being in situations where the matters at hand aren’t pressing or exciting or regimented for the first week and a half. Until Tammy figures out her rhythms and her patterns. Debbie knew that she would. Knew that Tammy would corner her eventually. Had been hoping it would be later than it turned out to be.

“How did you ever fall for this shmuck? Seriously?”

Debbie tells her a version of the truth that might not be the whole truth, but it also doesn’t have any lies in and of itself. It’s a version that hurts a little less to tell. Hurts a little less to have to stare down. Hurts a little less until Tammy sees through a little more of it than Debbie anticipated.

“And Lou was—?”  
“Lou was?”  
“Where was Lou?”

“At the bar. Working. Back before she owned it.”  
“And what does she think of him, in all of this, this time?”  
“Probably the same thing she did last time.”  
“Probably? Does she know, Deb?”  
“Let me worry about that. You worry about updating the seating chart.”

 

*

 

There’s a ding in the ceiling of her office that she doesn’t think she’s ever noticed before. She also hasn’t spent all that many hours sitting in her office staring at the ceiling. Once or twice at the walls, but typically if she’s around she prefers to be _doing_ something other than sitting high and mighty away from the action.

She stalked away from Debbie on the beach, came to the club, shut herself in her office three hours ago. Had a legitimate hour of work to be done.

Now, she’s waiting.  
For her blood to cool,  
for her head to stop pounding,  
maybe for a damn neon sign to point which direction she’s supposed to go because it’s six years ago all over again. It’s six years ago and Debbie isn’t going to listen and she’s going to lose her and she isn’t sure she can do another half-decade of _waiting_ knowing all of it will just repeat over and over.

She kicks herself.

Kicks herself for that first night of having Deb back, when she peeled _that_ dress off of her and then pulled away. And maybe she should have taken the chance. Maybe, if she’d realized it might be her last chance to _be_ with Deb she would have taken it. Would have taken it to remind her what they _were_ , what they’re supposed to be.

 

*

 

It’s cold by the water, even with her coat.  
Or maybe— _maybe_ —the shivering is from the way her insides are twisting up.  
Maybe she can admit that to herself.  
Never out loud.  
But to herself.

Debbie understands why Lou’s angry. Knows Lou doesn’t want her like _that_ anymore, she can tell that much. Knows Lou’s been keeping her distance, keeping the team close, spending the nights that it would just be the two of them in the loft at the club when there aren’t plans to see to.

Even still, she doesn’t know _how_ to let go of Lou. Doesn’t think she can, not really. Doesn’t think she can go back inside and face Tammy’s questions and Nine-Ball’s smoke and Constance’s noise, either. Not for now.

 

*

 

“Been a while, Debbie Ocean,” Jonah shoots her a knowing look from behind the bar. “What are you drinking these days?”

Lou mentioned that some of the old staff was still around, that Jonah was one of her managers. He still looks as boyish as Debbie’s ever seen—hair still floppy, eyes still bright, though there’s a bit more trouble in them and she figures that’s probably from working closely under Lou. She tries to smile, only half manages.

“I’m not here to drink, Jonah.”  
“Ah, right. She’s upstairs. Good luck.”

The place has changed since the days when Lou was just a bartender and Debbie had never been to prison. The dark wood on the dance floor and the bar are still the same, but the lights flashing in strobes overhead are new, and the booths are new, and the paneling on the stage might be new but she’d have to see it in the light to know for sure.

The metal banister is cool and a little rough and the stairs are steep and the door to Lou’s office has a doorknob that’s a little loose and she doesn’t knock. Walks in and closes the door behind her and steps into the room until she’s directly in front of the desk, across from Lou.

“We need to talk.”

Of course she would throw Lou’s own words from the beach right back.

“What, Deb? Something else you forgot to tell me about?”  
“Yeah, Lou. I forgot to tell you that I’m sorry.”

She walks around the desk, forces Lou to spin around in her chair to be able to track her movements, lean back if she wants to be able to see her face. Stops when she’s standing right in front of her.

“It’s not about Claude,” she sighs—tired. “It’s about you,” shoves her hands in her pockets. “It’s always been about you, about us. All of it. What he did? What I lost for _us_ because of him? I can’t forgive that and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Lou doesn’t give much away. Lifts a single eyebrow, regards Debbie, isn’t quite sure how all of it feels. Apologies aren’t something they do very often, same as words. She can tell Debbie means what she’s saying but she isn’t sure what that means for how it goes next.

“Well, tell me the plan, then.”

She does. All of it.  
The parts she knows Lou won’t like, the parts that were added for the flare—for the fun of it—because they _can_ , the parts that the rest of the team won’t find out about until the very end. Then squares her shoulders, takes another half step forward until her knees bump against Lou’s, looks Lou dead in the eye, says—

“—and it doesn’t work without you.”  
“It’s all too good for me to even think about asking you to change any of it. That—your ability to do _that_ —is still annoying, you know.”

Lou reaches out, silently asks for Debbie’s hand, toys with her fingers when she snags it out of the air after Deb pulls it out of her pocket. Traces over the lines on her palm and her knuckles and the scar she got when she was five and Danny tried to teach her how to ride a bike without training wheels and she fell over a sewer grate.

“But Deb, no more doing these things to try and protect me. Protecting _you_ is still supposed to be my job.”  
“Wasn’t sure you still wanted that job.”  
“Of course I do.”  
“You don’t have to, Lou. Six years—”  
“What are you talking about?”

Debbie shakes her head and tries to pull away.  
  
“Nothing. I’ll see you at home.”

Lou doesn’t let go of her hand; it isn’t lost on her that Debbie said _home_. Tugs her back when she tries to step towards the door.

“ _Deborah—_ ”  
“I was awake. The other night when you left. It’s okay—I get it.”

And Lou still won’t let go of Debbie’s hand. Pulls her forwards when she tries to pull away; and again, and again, until she pulls her into her lap. Kisses her slow and too short—

“Don’t you know that I love you, Jailbird?”

—runs her tongue along her jaw, nibbles on the soft skin just under her ear, scrapes her teeth down her neck, works over her pulse point to feel her breathing go erratic.

“Shit, Lou. Didn’t lock the door.”

Grips the back of Debbie’s thighs, stands, sets her on the edge of her desk. Smirks, bites down sure to leave a mark that will fade in more than enough time for the Gala, but will last through tomorrow.

“They aren’t coming up here. I think I scared them on my way in.”  
“Jonah did look a little afraid.”

Debbie spreads her legs to accommodate Lou between them; drags Lou as close as she can get her with an arm around her waist, bites her lip when Lou’s breathe is hot against her neck, followed by her tongue.

A hand is tracing invisible loop-de-loops up her ribs to her breasts, fingers pinching a nipple through the dark lace bra she’s got on under her blouse, while her other hand traces the same patterns up the inside of her thigh, fingers dancing up the centre seam, _pressing_ into her through the denim, and Debbie grapples for purchase on something solid—Lou’s hips, Lou’s shoulders, the strands of Lou’s hair.

“Lou—”  
“Yes, baby?”  
“—please don’t stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I welcome all forms of comments, concerns, general queries, and trivia facts ;)


	9. 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six years and here, in the middle of it all, it's all flawless.  
>    
> It's been six years.   
>    
> Six years since the last time she bore witness to this.  
> Six years since this was in front of her, within her reach,there for her to reach out and touch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it has come to my attention that here we are at chapter NINE of something I said would probably be seven chapters total.
> 
> Don’t ever listen to anything I say.
> 
> That said, this will probably have two more instalments after this’s
> 
> I hope you like!

**[May 7th, 2018]**

 

Ten paces and a corner;  
another seven and the stairs. Twenty off the stairs to find her mark.

She watches Debbie move across the screens, leans over Nine-Ball's shoulder to double check the time stamp at the bottom. Counts out Debbie's footsteps in time with the second hands they made sure were in sync with each other right at the start. Each countdown lets Lou breathe a little easier—a little lighter every time a set-up and a mark goes to plan, playing out in sequins and chiffon and flutes of champagne.

 

*

 

Later, inside, after leaving Nine-Ball to do what she does best on her own and with a remote control submarine in tow, it's a different kind of rush. A funnelling of all the energy bubbling up inside into focus. She can still smell Debbie's perfume even after she's left the room and Yen is dangling precariously and Amita is waiting downstairs to load the truck and it all falls into line. Each step and each breath and each move blends flawlessly into the next because that's the only way a job like this works—the sum of the parts. Every part needs to be flawless;  _is_  flawless.

It's been six years and here, in the middle of it all, it's all flawless.

It's been six years. 

Six years since the last time she bore witness to  _this_.

Six years since  _this_  was in front of her, within her reach,  
_there_  for her to reach out and touch. 

And God, but she had almost forgotten just how it felt.

Had forced herself to almost-forget how it makes her fingertips tingle, and it’s muscle memory coming back while her eyes linger on Deb sweeping around the room, all diamonds and glamour and smoky eyes. The blond isn't her best look, Lou thinks, but needs-must.

 _This_  is Deb for all that she is.  
_This_  is the formidable  _Deborah_ _Ocean_ , and she is a sight to behold. 

So, Lou watches. 

Watches Debbie work the room. Watches her make sure she's seen out of the corners of eyes and around edges of peripheral vision; makes sure her alibi is air-tight. Sees her when she sweeps behind Rose, who is sitting alone at one of the tables after Constance has passed off a set of diamonds, and pluck what would be her fourth-no-fifth glass of champagne right from her hand as she's lifting it to sip. Probably for the best. Rose does not need a fifth glass of champagne, especially tonight. 

Pulls her eyes off of Debbie, briefly. Scans the room for Becker. Finds him tucked away at a table beside a column, clearly attempting to smooth-talk Daphne Kluger. She exhales slow—relief—double checks the mental math and distances to be sure that she's closer to Deb than he is, to be sure that if he figures anything out she can be between them before he’d be able to lay a hand on her. Wonders if Kluger is actually falling for his charms or if she's smarter than she looks, playing him like another one of her characters. Thinks maybe they have a bit more in common with her than first glance might lend to believing. It doesn't matter. Not for now. 

 

*

 

Debbie can feel Lou's eyes. Stopped needing to be able to see Lou to know where she is in a room a long time ago. That's how they've always been—looks and body language and soft touches. And she can feel Lou's eyes dripping over her tonight. Knows she looks good. Knows that this dress does her more than a few favours even if Lou never has liked her as a blond—told her so the first time she ever saw Deb in a blond wig when they were still working third-rate casino tables. 

Constance is off to one side, fidgeting and mildly uncomfortable in her fitted lace dress, as perfect as that fit may be, but utterly at ease slipping the watch right off Leo's wrist when she shakes his hand and asks for an autograph on a napkin. Debbie holds in a smirk—proud. Amita has been edging the group surrounding Taylor Swift for ten minutes when Debbie catches her eye, raises her eyebrow, silently cajoles, ' _well_?'

Through it all she can feel Lou. Knows she's in the far corner, sitting languid on a stool at the bar sipping top-shelf scotch. She doesn't know if Lou knows what being able to feel her gaze on her skin  _means_. Doesn't know if she could make her understand that it's the reason she's able to do what she does. That knowing Lou is there is the biggest reason she can let go enough to play her part the way it needs to be played because Lou is _there_ —first and last line of defence.  

 

*

 

Lou slides her empty glass onto the bar top when the lights dim and the music starts.

That's the exit cue—they've been seen but not recognized, noted but not enough for anybody to realize they don't have seats at any of the tables. 

It's easy enough to slip through the crowd, out an emergency exit door around the corner from the bathrooms, head down to avoid being caught by the cameras that they didn't have Nine-Ball tampering. 

Down the alleyway, a right turn, a back street, a left turn, a city block, and then a red light. 

She isn't really sure why she waits for it to turn, there's no traffic, which she'd find odd for an evening in New York if it weren't for Debbie standing on the opposite corner commanding all of her attention. Standing under the streetlights and waiting for Lou to make it halfway over the crosswalk, then turning and setting pace and Lou knows it's intentional—the distance. That they need to maintain it for just a little longer, just until they're out of sight, two levels down in the parking garage.

Debbie's leaning against her bike when Lou rounds the corner. Gown spilling all over the seat and the ground, wig already gone, her own dark waves falling over her shoulders and a smirk on her lips—waiting. Waiting for Lou. Waiting for Lou to cross the distance and tangle her fingers in her hair and drag her close and ghost her lips across Debbie's, lick into her mouth.

She doesn't, though. Lets her wait a little longer.

"You did it, jailbird."

Then she gives in because Lou's never been overly patient with these sorts of things when Debbie's looking at her like that. Tastes the champagne Debbie's a little buzzed off of mixed with the Scotch on her own tongue and the high of it all. Debbie leans into the kiss, hooks a finger into the plunging neckline of that jumpsuit 

"Take me home, Lou."

It takes some doing for Debbie to straddle the bike behind Lou without tearing a slit into her dress—which Debbie suggested and Lou shot down because Lou likes beautiful things, Lou takes care of beautiful things, even if those beautiful things require a bit more attention to stay that way, and Debbie in that dress is most assuredly a beautiful thing. With the train and the skirt hauled up, Debbie's bare thighs press against the outside of Lou's, warm and soft and Lou runs a palm over the outside of one, taps Debbie's knee, asks—

"Is your helmet on?"

—before revving the engine and peeling out towards the exit ramp of the garage. 

Debbie keeps her hands to herself. Mostly. Crawls her fingers up from Lou's waist to caress the underside of her breast when they're stopped at a red light. Presses closer to Lou's back when she feels her breath hitch. Stays just as close when the light turns green, drops her hand down to Lou's hip, holds on. She might not adhere to many rules, only a handful, really, most of them set by Lou and revolving around the few times Debbie can and cannot touch.

Lou coasts up to the front of the warehouse, kills the engine. Debbie tugs her own helmet off her head, then Lou's, before the key is even fully out of the ignition. Feathers kisses up her neck, teeth scraping here and there, all of it far too light to get Lou anywhere close to where she'd like it to go; teasing and stringing-out time while she presses one hand flat against Lou's front, splayed over her sternum, holding her fast; the other wandering down her side—hip—over her belly.

Lou presses her hand over top of Debbie's, squeezes, pulls it away from her body even if her skin is cold in the wake. Kicks the stand into place, climbs off the bike, turns and catches Debbie's hand, steadies her while she slips off her seat, dress cascading back down to the floor.

Takes a step backwards, and another, and another, gripping Debbie's hand in her own. Keeps the distance between them until her back hits the front door and Debbie crowds her in, tongue hot against her neck licking a stripe up to the spot where her jaw meets her throat, fishes Lou’s keys out of her pocket and unlocks the door while she works her lips over Lou's skin—remembers what  _heat_  tastes like on her tongue.

Debbie's play for control is cut short when Lou reaches behind her and opens the unlocked door, grabs Debbie around the waist with one arm, spins her through it. Presses her against the wall to the left while the door falls closed with a click, kisses her with more tongue and teeth than anything else.

Bunches and gathers handfuls of delicate fabric to be able to slip a thigh snug between Debbie's, rocks forward when Debbie pulls away from Lou's lips to pull in a ragged mouthful of air, draws Lou closer with arms around her shoulders, grinds down against Lou's thigh with a huff of an exhale.

Lets Lou's hands gripping her hips dictate her movement into slow circles. Lets Lou be in control because she's been holding this house of cards that she spent five years, eight months, and twelve days figuring out how to build, up for so long and nothing has ever been home quite the way Lou is. She's never felt safe letting go with anybody but Lou, and Lou's hands are on her hips, and her lips are on her neck, and she can't think over the sound of blood rushing in her ears. 

"Please, Lou."

Debbie can feel the smirk against her shoulder—deep and delicious and positively sinful spreading across Lou's lips where they're working on leaving yet another mark behind. And Lou never has been one to let Debbie off the hook, has always gotten off on making her say it,  _ask_  for what she wants.

"Please _what_ , darling?"

"Take me to bed."

 

*

 

“God, you do make quite the view.”  
“Are you going to come closer or open a gallery?”  
“Impatient as ever, I see.”

Lou breathes deep with Debbie laid out before her on the bed, still in her gown, legs bent at the knee dangling over the edge of the bed, hair strewn in every direction. Traces cool fingers up Debbie’s legs, under the layers of airy fabric, caresses soft circles inside her thighs—just for a minute, just to tease—and hooks her fingers into the waistband on her black satin panties, tugs them down her legs far slower than Debbie wants her to. But then Debbie spreads her legs—obscene—accommodates Lou stepping forward to stand between them and plant a hand on the mattress by her head to lean over her, and nibble on her neck and her jaw and her ear, and dip her fingers into where she’s _soaked_ , and Debbie feels Lou’s breath hitch as much as she hears it.

“How long have you been like this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was worth the wait.  
> Comments turn me to goop!


	10. Three Days Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s had Deb to herself for three days. Three days of falling back into Deb-and-Lou and it's been just as easy as it always was before, and the girls will be arriving early in the morning, or at least as early as any of them can be bothered to arrive, and she isn’t quite sure she’s ready to share Debbie again just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...nobody should EVER believe me when I estimate how long something will be until I've finished writing it. I will be wrong 99.99% of the time. That is to say, there are still a few chapters left in this one... don't mind me and my over-ambitious thoughts about how much I can put into a chapter until I actually have to sit down to write it and then go "well... crap."
> 
> I know this update came a little slower than most have been, but I hope it's worth the wait.  
> Enjoy <3

It's well past five in the morning when she walks in the front door.  
The lights are all off, save for the floor lamp beside the couch glowing soft yellow.

It's quiet too, and  _still_.  
More  _still_  than it's been in weeks.

Which, if she's being honest, is something of a welcome change.

Nobody gets into their line of work if they don't like chaos and noise, if they don't revel in the distraction that comes with it.  
_Even still._ Sometimes it gets overwhelming. 

She flicks the deadbolt, turns off the lamp with a click, makes it up the stairs on muscle and spacial memory.  

Lou finds Debbie in the middle of the bed, curled up in a flannel shirt, asleep; feels a small wave of relief. The club has needed more of her attention than it usually might since the heist. Which was expected—passing it off completely for two weeks following a few weeks of being around less than usual meant the things that only she could see to and sign-off piled up. The first night she came home to find Debbie sitting on the couch, a book in her hand but staring at the wall—through the wall—a million miles away; the next sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, looking at Lou with soft eyes when she came through the door. 

She can't sleep without Lou beside her—not really. She doesn’t _say_ it.  
She doesn’t say it because she can  _sleep_ , but only the kind that's interrupted again and again when she startles over and over.

Lou isn’t sure how long Debbie will  _stay_  asleep tonight, does the best she can not to disturb her. Brushes her teeth, takes off her makeup, pulls on a sleep shirt of her own. Slides under the covers, rolls onto her side carefully to face Debbie.

They left the team with explicit instructions after the Gala: three days, lay-low, no contact.

She’s had Deb to herself for three days. Three days of falling back into Deb-and-Lou and it's been just as easy as it always was before, and the girls will be arriving early in the morning, or at least as early as any of them can be bothered to arrive, and she isn’t quite sure she’s ready to share Debbie again just yet.

This close she sees  _Deb_  instead of Deborah Ocean. To be fair, Lou sees  _Deb_  more often than she doesn't, more often than most. Can see that she's asleep but not at ease—eyebrows furrowed, eyes shut tight, breathing just a little shallow, whatever it is that hunts her down when she can't push it back running around and around her mind. She won't talk about it yet—not with anybody, not with Lou. 

Lou wonders, sometimes worries. And then Debbie startles in her sleep  _again._ Gasps back to fuzzy consciousness with dazed eyes and messy hair and Lou's insides clench in time with Debbie's. 

"Shhh," Lou clears the tangled curls away from Debbie's face.  
"Lou?"  
"Was there another hot blond you were expecting in my bed?"  
Debbie half-smiles, half-asleep, eyes still half-seeing whatever it was that woke her up. "What time is it?"  
"Late—or early. I'm sorry, jailbird."  
"You can make it up to me tomorrow."

Lou cups Debbie's jaw, thumb tracing her lips, her cheekbones.   

"Tomorrow became today hours ago, darling, and the girls are back in the morning."  
"Mmm. Maybe you need to make it up to me now." 

Debbie reaches for her. Threading fingers through Lou's hair and tugging her close. 

Lou's willing to play along. Drapes an arm over Debbie's waist, presses a flat palm to her back, pulls her in until they're pressed together, hip to hip, facing each other on their sides. Leans forward to trace the lines of Debbie's face with her lips, adds just a little teeth and then a little tongue following behind.

" _Tell_  me how to make it up to you, sweetheart."  
"Want you on top of me," Debbie rolls onto her back, underneath Lou. "Want your marks on my skin."

Lou smirks and set to work on her neck, teeters on the edge of pain. Leaves the first in what she plans to be a row of deep purple-red smudges along her collarbone.

"Want  _you_ —" Debbie drags Lou away from her neck with a hand on her chin. Drags her up to look her in the eye, whispers, "— _please_ , Lou," bites her lip and Lou knows it's intentional.   
Knows that Debbie knows what it does when she asks for what she wants, what she needs.   
Knows that Lou never has been able to deny her anything when she asks like  _that_.   
Doesn't plan on starting now.

And Lou works Debbie soft and slow, on her tongue with her palm warm against the inside of Debbie's thigh. Teases and draws it out and winds Debbie tight-tight-tighter until she's tugging Lou's hair until her scalp burns and grappling at the sheets, and Lou's name spills from her lips, mixes with whimpers and ragged breaths and curses. After she's tasted the scar on Debbie’s ribs—it still tastes the same as the rest of her skin—and left a mark on the underside of her breast, licked her nipples into pebbles, she works her on her fingers. Works her on her fingers, still slow, but not quite-as, until Debbie's back arches and her mouth falls open and her eyes fall closed and she's gasping for breath.

Lou’s hovering over her when Debbie’s eyes open, smirk all sin and sacrilege, leaning down to lick a gentle strip up Debbie’s neck to her ear, drawls—

“Don't you know how beautiful you are?”

Presses sticky fingers into Debbie’s hip, buries her face against her neck, presses a soft kiss there. Doesn’t expect Debbie to respond—doesn’t need her to, either. It isn’t  _them_  to say it out loud, never has been. Still, takes her breath away just a little when Debbie remembers how her limbs work, runs a hand up the length of Lou’s spine, rasps out—

“Love you.”

Wraps her arm around Lou's waist and flips them over. Straddles Lou's hips, threads their fingers, pins both hands above her head, looking down at  _Lou_  stretched out underneath her with a glint in her eye. Climbs off of Lou, off the bed, crosses the room towards the en-suite bathroom, tosses a pout and an eyebrow quirk over her shoulder, ' _coming?'_

Under the warm water spray Debbie backs Lou up against the wall—tile cool against her overheated skin, uses her lips to trace the lines from Lou's lips to her jaw and down her neck. Follows a line straight down her sternum to her belly-button and Lou growls low when Debbie's hands trails down the sides of her breasts, her waist, anchor her hips when Debbie settles on her knees and licks through her folds, and sets a rhythm of sucks and licks and kisses that has Lou's head going foggy. 

"Christ, Debs—"

One hand grappling for purchase against the wall, the other tangling in Debbie's hair,  _tugging_  between gasps and trying to see straight. Trying to  _see_  Deb, but she can't with all the adrenaline and the lust and the haze in her head and it's  _too_  much, feels  _too_  far away. And  _God_ , Deb's mouth is warm and gentle and wet against her, but it's all m _uch too far_  from Deb and she tugs again, this time a little more insistent and upwards.

"—Debs—"

Debbie can hear there's something different in Lou's voice, an edge, follows the pull of Lou's hands, gets back to her feet and lifts both hands to cradle Lou's face and clears her soaked fringe out of her eyes. Tries to read what she finds there, cocks her head a little to the side.

"Baby?"  
"Just—" Lou wraps her arms around Debbie, pulls her in tight, seems frustrated with herself; can't quite get the words to form until Debbie kisses her cheek, presses their foreheads together, asks,  
"Too much?"  
"Need to touch you. Need to feel you— _here_."

Debbie doesn't need any more than that—seals their lips together and slips a thigh between Lou’s, flush against her, ghosts a caress over Lou's breasts, down her sides to her waist. Lou grinds down against her, slick and steady and shuddering when Debbie presses against her just a little more firm. 

 

*

 

“Hey Tam-Tam,” Debbie follows Lou down the stairs, eyes Tammy who’s sitting at their kitchen table with a steaming mug in hand and eyeing her right back. “You’re here early.”

“I'm on time,” Tammy purses her lips, sips her coffee. “The rest of them are late.”

Lou doesn’t wait for Tammy to start asking questions. Doesn’t know how much Tammy heard. Definitely needs coffee before figuring that out. Heads straight for the pot of coffee sitting on the kitchen counter. Debbie trails behind her with the thought of making tea.

Tammy watches, opens her mouth to tease because Debbie and Lou would expect nothing less of her with nobody else around. Before she can get the words out the front door bursts open.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! I know I’m late! My mother was asking what I getting out of the safe when I was trying to leave and I had to distract her long enough to get the diamonds without her noticing—” Amita rushes in, realizes the only other person to arrive thus far is Tammy, exhales with her entire body. “—what did I miss?”

“I was just about to ask Lou what her and Debbie have been up to since the Gala.”  
Debbie interjects before Lou can select which colourful words to use to tell Tammy off. “How have you been, Amita? Apartment-hunting yet?”

And Amita starts in about her mother and then about her sister and then about the shop and then she trails off when she realizes that Debbie and Lou aren’t hearing a word she’s saying, aren’t listening to anything other than the hushed whispers they’re trading back and forth; aren’t seeing anything other than each other. And she sees Tammy just watching them too. And then she _sees_ Debbie and Lou and sees how close they’re standing, which, really, isn’t anything new but now there’s somehow less _space_ between them and—

“Did they—?  
“Definitely.”

 

*

 

Debbie’s phone buzzes with a text message. She pulls it out of her pocket, checks the notification, places it screen-down on the counter. Lou raises an eyebrow in question. 

“Flight just landed at JFK”  
“And our extra addition?”  
“This afternoon." 

Debbie’s fiddling with the top button of Lou’s vest while they talk; what she’s doing shielded from Amita and Tammy’s view by Lou’s body. Lou steps closer, lifts her mug to her lips, looks at Debbie over the rim.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” 

Debbie’s pupils go a little wider, she chews on the inside of her cheek, looks at Lou without waver, doesn’t get a word out before the door bursts open again for Constance to rocket through on her skateboard.

“What did I say about wheels on my hardwood?”

 

*

 

“You guys are _fucked._ Nice place; must be a bitch to heat.”  
“Excuse me. You are trespassing.” 

“No—we asked her to come.”

The rest of them don’t notice, too caught up in the surprise to Daphne Kluger strutting into the loft. Or, if they do notice they don’t show it, or don’t have time to show it, or whatever the case might be.

Nevertheless.

It isn’t lost on Tammy that Lou says “we” and then Debbie says “we” and they both seem to know all the ins and outs of even this part of the plan and that isn’t really a surprise, because they’ve always been in sync. _Even still._  

And,

“The _boyfriend_.”  
“Yeah, well, knew they’d be looking for somebody. Just had to make sure it wasn’t one of us.”

“It’s nice.”  
“Thanks.”

Lou sees Deb hide the flinch in an underhanded show of preening when Daphne says _boyfriend._ Knows that it’s a gross exaggeration, oversimplification that Becker himself probably told, bragging about _taking down an Ocean._

Speaks up because it _is_ nice. Because she knows the whole story even if the rest of them don’t. Because she knows who Debbie belongs to and the framing is all understatedly elegant and Deb belongs to _her_ and neither of them need to prove much of anything other than pay-outs to the rest of the lot and she’d really much rather stop thinking about _then_ and _there_ in favour of _here_ and _now_ when the collar of Deb’s shirt is just-barely hiding the hickeys Lou left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Concerns?


	11. One Day [I'll Tell You As Often As You Deserve]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The counter’s a little sticky.
> 
> She thinks briefly about ordering a piece of cherry cheesecake even thought she isn’t particularly hungry because it’s what they always used to order to share, back then, on the way home in the middle of the night.
> 
> Decides against it.  
> Turns her attention back towards the booth on the other side of the restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short... so short... but it felt "cluttered" to tie it in with what's planned next, so I decided to let it stand on it's own. I hope you enjoy it anyways! <3

The counter’s a little sticky.  
  
She thinks briefly about ordering a piece of cherry cheesecake even thought she isn’t particularly hungry because it’s what they always used to order to share, back _then_ , on the way home in the middle of the night.

Decides against it.  
Turns her attention back towards the booth on the other side of the restaurant.

Lou isn’t worried about John Frazier. Genuinely. “He’s family” is a joke she learned years ago, from the Ocean’s themselves. She was introduced to him at Danny’s bachelor party, the first one, which Lou managed to swing an invite to while Debbie decidedly had not.

 _“Hey, Lou! Meet John.”  
__“The one who’s busted both you and your father?”  
__“Ha! He’s family. John, this is Lou. She’s Debbie’s.”  
_Rusty interjected, _“John’s basically the kind of annoying cousin that rats everyone out to all the parents at family functions for watching movies we’re not old enough to watch.”_

And John Frazier shook Lou’s hand, looked her in the eye.  _“How long have you known Debbie?”_ _  
__“For all the parts of my life that matter.”  
__"Cheers.”_

—clinked their glasses and nodded and smiled a little and Lou somehow liked him despite his day job. She liked that he seemed to understand what it meant when Danny introduced her as  _Debbie’s_ , liked that he didn’t prod when she answered how long she’s known Deb the most honest way she knows how. She liked that he had the balls to come to this party even knowing how his day job compared to most of the room.

So, now, she isn’t worried about John Frazier, or Debbie meeting with him. That doesn’t mean she’s ready to let Deb out of her sight just yet. Doesn’t mean she isn’t worried about _Deb_ and how she’s dealing with the aftermath of prison and Danny being gone now that the job is wrapping up and there’s more and more time on her hands.

She sees Debbie slide her phone over the table. Sees John pick it up and examine the screen. Can hear bits and pieces of their conversation during a lull in restaurant noise—

“You know, one day you are going to have to let this go.”  
“And one day I will.”  

 —chews her lip, runs a finger around the rim of her half-cold cup of coffee, knows that the “one day” will be when the conviction comes down. Knows that Debbie’s just waiting for the final pay-out to call it closed.

But she doesn’t know how _she_ lets it go.  
How _she_ gets over that piece of scum betraying her partner—her lover—her _person_ because they might be felons, and they might be thieves, but there’s still supposed to be trust between co-workers within a job itself.

So, Lou doesn’t know how she gets over it. Doesn’t really know _when_ she’ll figure out how to be over it. But Deb came _home_ to _her_ and so she might not be able to trust other people with Debbie’s safety or well-being, might not be able to trust anybody else to be the one watching Debbie’s back for a while, but she trusts _Debbie_ and that’s enough because she knows Debbie trusts her too.

John sends Lou a nod as her and Debbie exit the diner and Lou’s a little lost in her own head on the walk to the subway. Snaps out of it when Debbie pulls her off to the side before they walk into the station; turns, faces her, grabs one of Lou’s hands to hold. 

“What’s going on?”

She should have known Debbie would be able to tell that something was bothering her, that something was tangling her mind up tighter and tighter the more she wrapped her thoughts around it. Turns the words over a few more times before saying them out loud. 

“If this doesn’t take I’ll take care of _him—Becker—_ myself.”

The name still tastes sour when she says it, but Debbie’s palms are warm when Debbie lifts them to rests against Lou’s cheeks, her thumbs are soft over Lou’s cheekbones.

“Lou, you can’t do that.”  
“Debs, I—”  
“No,” and her words are so earnest that Lou isn’t really sure she’s _ever_ heard Deb be quite so honest before. “I need you. I need you more than I need anything else. And one day I promise I will figure out how to tell you that as often as you deserve—”  
“You don’t have t—”  
“Shut up. I need you to promise me you won’t go after him. That you won’t go after him and end up in jail because I _need_ you and I couldn’t do six years without you again.”

Lou rests her hands on Debbie’s waist and pulls her as close as she can get her and kisses her softly, rests her forehead against Deb’s when they break apart.

“I’m not going anywhere, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one should go back to being a little longer.
> 
> Comments always feed the muse <3


	12. Reach for Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it is, she points her bike North and drives. Breathes salty air and warm wind and foregoes wearing her leather jacket in the sun. Thinks about Debbie around every bend. Not the way she did while Debbie was in prison, though. Not the kind of thinking that makes her hurt. The kind that makes her hope. The kind that reminds her what it feels like to breathe and live for the things that she loves about herself. The kind that reminds her what the point of it all, is.
> 
> She’s loved Deborah Ocean forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter-ish one, but I hope you enjoy :)

The white marble is cold. Even in the sun.  
And the gold lettering glints in the light and there are just so many things she’d say, if she could.

  
She can’t, though.  
Has a strict policy about not talking to dead people anything more than chastising and brief.

Debbie thinks she might need to start thinking that Danny might actually be dead, or at least gone in a mostly-permanent way, soon. Can’t keep running after nothing forever—no leads, no whispers, no rumours. But still—

“You were right.”

She hates admitting it because her brother’s ego has never needed inflating, dead or alive. The statement is true nonetheless and if she’s learned anything over the last six years it’s that maybe,  _just maybe_ , she should admit that she’s wrong once in a while,  _maybe_.

Lou was never going to be  _just_  her partner and the loft is too quiet with only one person in it and that eats at her a little bit at a time that Lou might have—maybe—probably felt that way for so long and—

She’s going in circles. Again. Never has been good at being  _still_.

Lou always made up for that. Always gave her mind something to banter with, wrap around. Was always the only thing that could stop her mind from running circles around  _everything_. Was the only thing her mind  _never_  ran circles of doubt around.

But Lou’s not at home right now, won’t be coming home tonight smelling of smoke and liquor from the club, either.

Lou’s not at home because she asked Debbie to go with her to California, said she’d wait until Debbie’s parole was up, and Debbie wanted to say yes. Wanted to say yes and be  _still_  with each other for a few weeks and then climb onto the back of the bike behind Lou and wrap her arms around her waist and start writing the next chapter together instead of dwelling on the last one.

She knew that wasn’t what Lou needed, even if she wanted it as much as Debbie did.

Knew, has always known, that  _this_  finale was always supposed to be  _Lou’s_ in the same way  _circumstance_  and Chanel perfume has always been  _Debbie’s_  and so—

 _“I was talking to Tammy about fencing the crown jewels.”_  
_“And?”_ _  
_ _“The diamonds need to go now, but we have a little more time for the rest. It would be wise to spread them out a bit, geographically.”_

_Lou nodded thoughtfully, standing by the kitchen counter._

_“We could send a couple pieces to Paris, with Amita. I know some buyers who might be interested.”_  
_“Call them—see what they’ll take.”_  
_“But?”_  
_“There’s an estate auction in San Luis Obispo that’s still accepting sellers.”_ _  
_ _“California?” Lou raised an eyebrow, regarded Debbie, maybe a little apprehensively._

 _“Next Thursday.”_  
_“I’d have to leave the day after tomorrow.”_ _  
_ _“I know.”_

_Lou chewed the inside of her cheek, spun the silver wolf head ring she always wears around and around her finger, looked at the floor instead of meeting Debbie’s eyes._

_“Tired of me already, Jailbird?”_

_Really, it was meant to be a joke. Even still, Lou’s insecurities showed through just a little and Debbie felt in right in the pit of her belly and stepped up close and dropped a hand to Lou’s waist and pulled her a little closer-still. Debbie held on to Lou’s waist until her eyes left the floor, until they met Debbie’s, waited until they granted her permission to lean in and whisper soft in her ear, across her cheek, over her lips, again and again—_

_“Never, Lou.”_

_Debbie kissed her._  
  
_Kissed her soft and slow until Lou leaned into her, until Lou’s arms snaked around her waist, until Lou kissed her back raw and demanding, all tongue and teeth. Until Lou slipped a hand up Debbie’s shirt to splay over her back, fingers teasing the hooks of her bra._

 

*

 

She's been imagining this trip for half her life.

Imagining blowing through flyover states; breathing in the desert until it ingrained in her lungs; tracing the Pacific from one point to the other.

The dream always had her alone.  
Her and her bike and her leather jacket, adding-up new scars and stories and sins on her list.

That changed, though.

Not the dream about the trip.  
Not the speeding through the desert or the leather or the sins, but the part about doing it just-her. The dream changed the day she started seeing Deb in it with her, clinging tighter every bend she leaned into without slowing down. 

She passes The Mission on her way into San Luis Obispo. Thinks that Deb would have liked its white walls and deep-red clay-tile roof and arched doorways and stone steps. Thinks Deb would have loved everything that’s stretched out around her, now; nearly misses her turn getting caught-up in the vision of Deborah Ocean standing ankle-deep in the Pacific Ocean.

Shakes her head, rolls her eyes—waxing poetic isn't her style.

Still, she's missed her lover for the seven days she’s been out of New York. Didn't get to see her before leaving when the auction Debbie was at with pieces from the Toussaint went long and Lou had to get a move on if she was going to make it through the first stretch before the middle of the night. Left a note in the kitchen in spiky scrawl and black ink on notepad paper.

_Sorry you missed me, honey, but ground to cover and needs-must._

_Try not to get too bored without me and stay out of trouble.  
No robbing any liquor stores._

_I'll bring you something pretty._

_Love you, Jailbird.  
-x_

_She groaned, later, falling into bed in a highway motel and opening her phone for the first time in hours to a message from Deb. A picture with her bottom lip between her teeth and her shirt and bra long-gone and her hair falling artfully over the swell of her breasts, hiding the hickeys Lou knows she left behind._

Try not to miss me too much, baby.  
_read 11:25pm_

*  


The auction itself is a brief distraction. It’s almost laughable just _how_ easy it is to register the re-imagined Crown Jewels of Europe as personal family heirlooms, herself as the seller under a fake name. They barely ask for ID and they pay-out in cash and she wishes once again that Deb was with her, just for the sake of laughing about it together, buzzed equal parts off the glasses of celebratory wine and the high of seeing the dollars roll in, even if the bills in the saddle bags on Lou’s bike would need to be deposited into an off-shore account before they can be distributed.

As it is, she points her bike North and drives. Breathes salty air and warm wind and foregoes wearing her leather jacket in the sun. Thinks about Debbie around every bend. Not the way she did while Debbie was in prison, though. Not the kind of thinking that makes her hurt. The kind that makes her _hope_. The kind that reminds her what it feels like to breathe and live for the things that _she_ loves about herself. The kind that reminds her what the point of it all, is.

She’s loved Deborah Ocean forever.

Is pretty sure she loved Debbie all the way back to that first time she dropped down into the seat beside her in detention. Had never been sure of much of anything, anyone, until then. And she’s pretty sure Debbie knows that—has known that for a long time and for all of the crap that Debbie’s pulled, the schemes, the not sharing full plans at the start, the bravado, she has always, _always_ been willing to be the one to reach out for Lou when all of Lou’s instincts won’t let her reach out for Deb.

She thinks, somehow, Deb’s always just _known_ that Lou didn’t know _how_ to be the one to reach, even long before she ever told Deb the why’s and the how’s and the came-before’s that brought her to that place.

So Deb reached for Lou in the parking lot after prom; she reached for Lou when Danny pulled her in for that poker table and she told him she wouldn’t do it without her partner; she reached for Lou half-drunk of New Year’s Eve when the century turned.

Then, she reached for her after the beach, after Lou dressed her down; after five years, eight months, and twelve days.

All at once Lou realizes that she’s loved Deb for most of their lives, and Deb’s been _reaching_ for her all that time and each and _every_ time Lou’s _been there_ when Debbie reached for her, but this time, maybe, Lou thinks she might want to _reach_ for Deb. Maybe.

  
*

  
  
She finds it at an unremarkable vintage shop in the Haight-Ashbury District of San Francisco and Lou is fairly certain the store owner has no idea what he has in his inventory.

It needs a polish and one of the halo stones is missing from the frame around the emerald-cut white sapphire at the centre and the design is unmistakable and the jeweller’s stamp on the inside is legitimate.

Not many people know about it at all. The only reason Lou does is a job that had her waiting out the mid-game in a used bookstore, perusing the coffee-table-book section. She stumbled across a black and white photo and a brief write-up about the ring that the lover Coco Chanel was never public about commissioned as a birthday gift during the 1920’s. The square stone surrounded by small white diamonds, set in white gold was one-of-a-kind, and the man never got to give it to her. The war broke out and he was sent overseas and never made it home. It wasn’t even _found_  until a decade later when a safe deposit box that was unlisted in his will was discovered. A safe deposit box containing the ring, in its box, and a letter to the woman it was meant for.    

It was passed on to the intended recipient; eventually “lost” at one event or another, barely publicized given the wartime era. Frankly Lou assumed it had been stolen all along. Kept half-expecting it to appear on some magazine cover adorning the finger of some young starlet.

But it must have _actually_ been lost at some point because it’s there, sparkling up at her from the middle of a tray of costume jewelry in a hole-in-the-wall vintage store.

It’s audacious and old and has a story worth writing stories about and she buys it for a fraction of what it’s worth and keeps it in the inner pocket of her leather jacket when she turns her bike back East, towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the muse <3
> 
> Side bar: I am also on tumblr as @blacklaceandchains if you want to hmu there.


	13. Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stillness somehow feels different than it usually does when she wakes up.  
> Permeates the air a little more—air that’s waiting on the sky to rain; entrenches a little deeper under her skin; disrupts her day-to-day goings on more than it did the day or week before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short, but soft and smushy and I think I like how this turned out?  
> I hope you like it too <3

The stillness somehow feels different than it usually does when she wakes up.  
Permeates the air a little more—air that’s waiting on the sky to rain; entrenches a little deeper under her skin; disrupts her day-to-day goings on more than it did the day or week before.

It might be that she went to visit Danny late the night before. Went to visit long after the mausoleum had been locked-up tight for the night; had to pick the lock to get in. And maybe she had somehow been expecting that if she broke some sort of rule to go see him, a lead would materialize. And maybe when the only things inside the mausoleum late at night turned out to be marble and _stillness,_ well, maybe some of it followed her home.

Another twitch of her fingers and tightening of the muscles in her back and Debbie pulls herself out of bed and into the bathroom. Brushes her teeth, forces her hair into a ponytail, pulls on sweatpants and a tank top and an old pair of Pumas and goes for a run. Tries to keep the pounding of her feet against the pavement level. Tries to count out her breathing in time with her strides. Tries to keep pace with her thoughts.

It works for a while. It works until it doesn’t when the run that was meant to keep her from running away from herself brings her past the bench by the river where she sat next to Lou the first time Lou told her she never wanted to live without her.

The stillness creeps back into her bloodstream and she isn’t sure she remembers how to breathe.  
The pre-rain New York mugginess doesn’t help.

The loft stands just as _static_  when she comes full-circle as it did when she left.  
  
She strips herself bare on her way up the stairs, closes the bathroom door with a click, steps into the shower. Uses her own shampoo and Lou’s body wash. Stands under the spray, in steam that smells of bergamot and strawberries and mint and leans back against the tile wall. Drags her fingers through her hair, stops to knead her breasts, pinches a nipple, closes her eyes and bites her lip. Tries to imagine that her fingers are Lou’s. That it’s Lou’s touch tracing down her throat, stroking soft and slow over her stomach. Doesn’t bother holding in the sigh, slips two fingers between her thighs and snaps her eyes open when she hears the sound of the lock on the front door clicking and the door opening downstairs.

It’s probably Constance, maybe Tammy, but even with the bathroom door securely shut the heat coiled inside Debbie unwinds as soon as she isn’t alone in the loft.

When she steps out of the bedroom, towards the stairs having pulled on a pair of tight jeans and white button-front silk top, with her hair hanging loose down her back, she expects to find Constance rummaging through the fridge, or at the very least on the couch with Netflix playing on the projector screen, or Tammy sitting at the kitchen island with a book.

She’s met with silence.

  
The air feels different though—not stifling like it was when she woke up and it takes her a minute but then she can’t believe it took her that long at all. Lou’s bike, her new one, sits beside her old one on the far end of the space. There’s a dirty trail of tire treads across the hardwood between it and the door that will need to be mopped later. Lou's leather jacket is shucked haphazard over the back of the couch.

The space is empty save for Debbie.

She’s spent her entire life looking at the details of everything and it doesn’t take her long to notice that the door at the top of the second flight of stairs, the one that leads to the roof, is ajar.

Lou’s on the far side of the roof from the door, still wearing her tight leather pants from being on the bike, and a deep purple vest showing off her usual tangle of necklaces, when Debbie nudges it open quietly.

She’s leaning against the railing.

She’s leaning against the railing facing away from Debbie, with one of those cheap unfiltered cigarettes that she only ever smokes when she’s celebrating something or on-edge about something these days, and a drink in her hand, back-dropped by the watercolour-grey, storm-ready clouds.

Debbie knows that Lou knows she’s there without having to look, without having to say it out loud. Steps up close behind her and breathes in the nicotine and _wilderness_ rolling off of her and plucks the tumbler from Lou’s hand to take a sip. The scotch is heavy and half-air on her tongue—expensive by truest definition and not a bottle that was in the liquor cabinet when Lou left or stocked by Debbie in her absence.

“I thought we didn’t rob liquor stores anymore?”

Debbie smirks around the words when she says them, places the glass back in Lou’s hand. Wraps an arm around Lou’s waist from behind and rests her chin on Lou’s shoulder.

“I told _you_ not to rob any while _I_ was away; and I bought this, I’ll have you know.”  
“Not sure whether to be proud or appalled.”  
“Come on, Jailbird. Don’t tell me you haven’t bought at least a couple outrageous things just to see what it feels like.”

“You know me too well,” She drags a line of wet kisses up the back of Lou’s neck. “I did make a rather extravagant trip to La Perla that you might be interested in knowing about.”

Lou leans back into Debbie and lifts her free hand and turns her head and tangles her fingers in dark waves. Tugs Debbie’s lips to her own and holds her fast while she remembers exactly what Debbie tastes like with her tongue in her mouth; feels like pressed up against her back; sounds like in the little gasps stifled by Lou’s mouth.

They pull apart. Lou settles back into Deb—head tipped back against her shoulder; enjoys the feeling of how tight the arm around her waist is wrapped; closes her eyes for a measured breath and Debbie holds her even a little tighter.

Lou’s turned quieter than usual. She’s always been contemplative at times, always prone to thinking over speaking, but it’s not like her to be quite so ready to curl into Debbie like this. Not unheard-of, though. Debbie’s ghosting her lips over Lou’s temple when Lou finally seems to come back to herself.

“Missed you.”

Debbie laughs a little, soft and full of air, lips brushing against Lou’s skin when she responds. “You could have joined me in the shower, you know.”

Lou doesn’t say anything, nuzzles into Debbie’s neck instead, murmurs, “I brought you something.”

Feels Debbie’s smile and ask, teasing, “Am I gonna have to exchange something you stole?”  
  
“This one didn’t come with an exchange policy, Jailbird.” Lou shifts, reaches into her pocket, fingers the trinket she’s had stashed away across ten states. Nearly rolls her eyes at herself for the way her insides are knotting-up. Rolls the words off her tongue before the nerve goes up in smoke.

“I thought about you while I was in California—”  
“—thought about you too, Lou.”  
  
“I thought about _you_ and about _us_ and about how you were everything I wanted when we were seventeen and conning our way into University and then you were everything I didn’t want the day I realized you had conned your into my life and under my skin and into all the places that I tried to keep anybody else from ever getting close to because I couldn’t ever give them what they wanted—”

“—you don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to give me anything you don’t wan—”  
“—for somebody so good at commanding an audience you’re terrible at listening.”

Debbie snaps her mouth closed, burrows her face into Lou’s shoulder, waits for Lou to finish whatever is it she’s trying to say.

“And then I thought about you and about us some more and I thought that maybe all those things I never wanted wouldn’t be so bad, with you. That maybe I _want_ them if I can have them with you. So, Debs, what is it _you_ want?”

“The only thing I’ve ever _wanted is—”_  The words flood-out in a rush before Debbie even has her head off of Lou’s shoulder and her eyes back open and then dry-up when the white sapphire haloed in diamonds, set in white gold shimmers where Lou holds it up in front of her. Her words dry up and her eyes go wet and _calm_ sets deep down inside when she whispers _—_

“ _You_.”

And then Lou’s turning around and wrapping around Debbie and flipping their positions so that it’s her crowding Deb up against the railing and Lou _tastes_ like coffee and scotch and _home_. And the sky is finally opening up the way it's been threatening for _hours_. Raining down in fat cool droplets turning Debbie's shirt see-through. And the ring is cool and heavy on her finger and Lou’s warm until she’s pulling away and stepping back, saying,

“Come on, I need to wash the highway out of my hair. Drove all night to beat the storm and be back for this morning.”  
“Some of us just _had_ a shower.”

Lou just snags Debbie’s hand and tugs while she takes another step towards the door back into the loft.

“Well, if you’re not _interested_ I guess I’ll just shower all on my own.”

And even if her skin is chilled from the rain, Debbie’s hair doesn’t need to be washed again, and she never put make-up on to begin with, and this time it isn’t her fingers that she’s pretending are Lou’s. It’s _Lou’s_ tongue working down her throat and over her breasts and sucking a mark that will bruise into burgundy and purple by the end of the day onto the side of her ribs. It’s _Lou’s_ fingers slipping between her thighs and teasing and drawing it out and—

“Christ Debs, you’re soaked.”  
“ _Missed_ you.”  
“ _Love_ you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even gonna lie--almost didn't know if I'd get this finished and posted today, but I'm leaving for a week of sunshine and coastline and vineyards tomorrow, so I really wanted to get it done.
> 
> There will be one more instalment after this--I have it outlined and everything, so it should be REAL this time, lol. 
> 
> I'll have my laptop and internet while I'm away, so I won't rule out the possibility of writing/posting happening, but if it doesn't I'll see y'all in a week <3 <3 <3
> 
> As always, comments feed the muse <3


	14. 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They wait until Debbie's lips curl into a smirk and break into a small smile and their own follow even if they don't know what they're smiling for and Debbie tucks the paper back into the envelope, turns and sidles up to Lou where she's still leaning in the door frame, tucks the envelope into the inner-pocket of her blazer. Runs her fingers along the edges of the lapel while she catches Lou's eye. Winks and nods and grips the raw silk a little tighter until Lou winks and nods too because Lou understands the magnitude of what Debbie's giving her to carry—understands just how big that letter is. What it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...it took me far longer to write this chapter post-coast of California than I thought it would.  
> I hope this ending is worth the wait!

**[May 7 th, 2019]**

Stilettos click against the cobblestones and cracked concrete.  
Of course she would wear heels to navigate the crowds of Camden Town.

Past the stalls selling tapestry-printed and fringed blanket scarves; down the boarded-up block that burned—her heart twinges a little; remembers leaving their names on one of the now-gone walls that used to line one of the alleys in permanent marker, back when they came here for the first time; around the corner from a black-light-lit storefront lined with busts dressed in steampunk, steel-boned corsets dripping in hardware; and she can smell the row of food vendors even from two alleys away. Can smell the turmeric and panko-breading and burnt frying oil.

There’s a kid eyeing-up her rings and her watch and her leather cuff. Can’t be more than seventeen. Still all baby-cheeked and bleached-haired and wide-eyed when Lou's looking right back, catches him. Looks him dead in the eye, smirks in that way that tells him in no uncertain terms that she knows  _exactly_  what he’s up to. That way that tells him that she’s better than he is, than he’ll probably ever be.

His eyes fill with a little awe. He nods and scurries away down the first cross-street and disappears into the cloud of sweet smoke and bodies, towards the stable market.

Debbie snorts, shakes her head, tells Lou without breaking pace:

“That boy just fell in love with you.”

They walk through a shop that sells clocks made from scratched records and leave out the back door. Down worn wooden stairs and Lou follows Debbie every step. Where else would she be? And if she lifts a chunky sterling ring that’s heavy on her finger from an unattended booth as they walk by she’ll call it a souvenir when Debbie asks about it later.

The storefront they’re looking for is in the heart of the market; the distillery behind and above; the little row of apartments just behind that, up a flight of stairs that’s mostly hidden by an overgrown shrub. The steps are concrete, half crumbled-away, and the space smells of damp stone and tinctures and lavender and Lou wonders if this is  _really_  where they’re supposed to be.

But Debbie was so sure— _is_  sure—and so, Lou is too. Would follow Deb just about anywhere, but especially to here, waiting just behind her while she knocks on the door and waits.

“I was starting to wonder if you got my message.”  
“Some of us work jobs that we can’t just drop on a dime, Rusty.”  
“Ouch. Good to see you too.”

Lou isn’t quite sure whether Debbie’s referencing Lou’s club or their other work, but it’s doesn’t actually matter beyond curiosity. Debbie’s words might be cutting but Rusty knows that the incredulous smirk she’s wearing means she isn’t actually chastising him. He hauls her into a hug that she might not entirely want, but accepts nonetheless, smiles at Lou over Debbie’s shoulder when he lets his best friends baby sister out of his grasp.

“Lou Miller. Rumour has it you let an _Ocean_  make an honest woman out of you.”  
“Well, nobody was ever going to be able to make  _her_  into an honest woman; one us had to go straight.”  
“About damn time you two figured it out. Looks good on you. Danny always said—”

“—speaking of my brother—”  
“Right, right. Come in.”

   
*

Two weeks earlier Debbie had turned in on herself; understated and quiet and a little bit resigned. Ready to accept that, perhaps, Danny was gone. Accept that even if he wasn’t gone, she wasn’t going to find  _him_ ; it would be on his timing or not at all and, well, who knew when that would be. The atlases and maps and family tomes she’d had spread across the stage beside the record player for months had been packed away one by one—folded and sealed and stored meticulously for the next time she might need them.

Lou found her on the beach when she got home from the club in the middle of the night.

 _“We can keep looking, sweetheart. You don’t have to be ready to give up on him.”_ _  
_ _“I can’t ask you to live our life searching for a ghost, Lou.”_

Lou didn’t think Debbie even realized the  _our_  and  _life_  that had slipped out. She could feel the weight of the things that meant the words had slipped out too. Slipped her arms around Debbie’s waist and took some of  _her_  weight, even if she couldn’t take any of the rest.

The bottle was on the front steps two days later with a note stuck to the front.

_Happy Birthday, Bee-Bee.  
-Rusty_

Only Danny called Debbie Bee-Bee. Despite the signature on the tag Rusty wouldn’t dare. Besides, Rusty didn’t drink gin, especially didn’t like  _Half Hitch Gin_ , but it was the kind Danny had pilfered from their father’s liquor cabinet the first time he got Debbie good and truly drunk. He got himself drunk that time too—they were both a mess and swore up and down they would take the tale to the grave. The brand had been an in-joke ever since—

*

Lou follows Debbie into the apartment, across the black-and-white tile floor of the kitchen. Leans in the doorway on the other end of the kitchen that spills into the living room. 

The place is small, old, nice enough—subway tile back-splash behind the kitchen counter, stainless appliances, leather sectional taking up most of the small living room that isn't otherwise occupied with the fireplace or TV on the mantle. 

"He isn't  _here_."  
"Can see that. Have you seen him?"  
"Have I seen dead people? Not in a month or three."  
"But you have seen him?"

Rusty disappears through a door on the other side of the living room that Lou assumes is a bedroom. Re-appears with a sealed envelope that he hands to Debbie.

"Dead people don't hang around cities as big as London—not when they're well-known and notable and wanted by more than one government."  
"But they leave letters for their baby sister?"  
"Sometimes—three months ago."

Lou watches Debbie. Debbie stares at the envelope. Turns it over and over in her hands. Inspect the seal, the edges, the spiked-print on the front spelling out her nickname. Carefully tears it open—a clean rip of the flap on the back and a crinkle of lined paper inside. Rusty's watching her do it and Lou watches him watching her for a few moments before turning her full attention back to Debbie. 

Debbie's eyes narrow reading the note and Lou holds her breath and Rusty holds his and they wait.   
  
They wait until Debbie's lips curl into a smirk and break into a small smile and their own follow even if they don't know _what_  they're smiling for and Debbie tucks the paper back into the envelope, turns and sidles up to Lou where she's still leaning in the door frame, tucks the envelope into the inner-pocket of her blazer. Runs her fingers along the edges of the lapel while she catches Lou's eye. Winks and nods and grips the raw silk a little tighter until Lou winks and nods too because Lou understands the magnitude of what Debbie's giving her to carry—understands just how  _big_  that letter is. What it means. 

_'I'll keep your secrets, Jailbird. I'll keep_ you  _safe.'_

 

Lou doesn’t press.

They leave Rusty’s apartment with a smirk tossed over Debbie’s shoulder and Lou doesn’t push—not yet. Debbie’s got that glint in her eye that tells Lou she’s working on something—that she’s _so damn_ close.

And she doesn’t have time to think about pressing when they get back to their hotel room and she’s barely got the door locked behind them before Debbie’s pressing _her_ up against it with hands gripping her hips, sucking Lou’s bottom lip between her own.

And then she doesn’t need to press when she’s spread out on her back across the king-size bed in their penthouse suite and Debbie traces the inside of her thigh with a trail of wet kisses, peers up at her—

“How do you feel about—”

She doesn’t get the words out before Lou’s pulling her up from between her legs, kisses her all soft and gentle and without any of the tongue and teeth they played with while Debbie peeled Lou out of her jacket and vest and skin-tight jeans.

“—anywhere, Debs. Doesn’t matter.”  
“You don’t have to, Lou.”

It’s the look in Lou’s eye that does it. The one that’s wrapped up in leather and engine oil and tire treads and devotion that Debbie isn’t sure she’ll ever feel like she’s worthy of—like she’ll ever feel as though _anybody_ could be worthy of.

“No, I don’t. But I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has ended up being... way-way-WAY more words than I thought it would be.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck around for this adventure, and left kudos, and comments.  
> I'm also on Tumblr as @blacklaceandchains, if anybody needs me or wants to find me--still sort of figuring out how to not turtle into myself so if you wanna send me an ask or a message, well, I've PROBABLY already WANTED to send you one and just been too much a chicken. 
> 
> Thank you, once again, a MILLION times over <3 <3 <3


End file.
